


Two Bitter Years Later

by Eva_Marlowe



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: 80s London, AU to my series, Anger, Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fix-It of Sorts, Homophobic Language, Jealousy, M/M, Minor Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Smut, Temporary Infidelity, Temporary unhappiness, Threats of Violence, Unresolved Tension, mild D/s themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-06-05 07:39:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 38
Words: 83,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15165839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eva_Marlowe/pseuds/Eva_Marlowe
Summary: In Aciman's book, Oliver visits Elio at Christmas and announces his engagement. He also treats Elio like a stranger, refusing to touch him or even be friendly. Aciman's Elio allegedly forgives Oliver, but what if he hadn't?Fast forward two years: Elio is in London studying Composition and Oliver is married (no kids) and suddenly appears out of nowhere. Elio is not happy about it, which is the understatement of the century.This is an AU of sorts to my previous series. You don't need to have read it to enjoy this story, but some references will be lost.The characters I created are present here too (Jack, Pierre, etc).This London will be grittier and less soft-lensed, because Elio is virtually penniless and determined to refuse financial help from his parents.I promise a happy ending, but the course of true love will not run smooth...





	1. April is The Cruellest Month

**Author's Note:**

> I had a chat about this story with the lovely and very talented @isitandwonder: I doubt the story will be as dark as she would like it to be because I love these boys too much, but it will be more kitchen-sink realism than Guadagnino idyll.
> 
> Initially the story was supposed to be set in 1988, but that would have left too large a gap to be filled.
> 
> Novel and film references are mixed, as per usual.
> 
> Please do not repost my work anywhere else without my explicit permission.
> 
> I don't own the characters, but they have my heart and soul and all the rest of it.
> 
> Elio's POV, to start with.
> 
> The title of the chapter is a quote from The Waste Land

London, April 1986

 

The sky was overcast and a cutting wind was blowing the detritus off the street into the air, like snow inside a globe.

I shivered inside my Loden coat and wrapped my scarf more tightly around my neck. A quick checklist of my limbs established that my toes and fingertips were freezing cold bordering on numb.

Will I ever get used to these gloomy springs which never quite blossomed into summer, I wondered. I had been in London for over a year and its squalor and filth still took me by surprise. The Old Street flat I shared with another student was crummy and infested by a variety of insects, but it was all I could afford. I had refused an allowance from my parents and was making do with a meagre income from piano lessons and other odd jobs. I had applied and been accepted at the Guildhall School of Music with the intention of leaving home for a less idyllic location and my wishes had been fully granted.

 

I went into the Chimes music store to browse the score books, but mostly in order to delay my return home. That evening I was supposed to go out with Andreas, a Hungarian student I had met at the French pub in Soho: the date meant clean clothes and bath, but the boiler wasn't working because we hadn't paid the gas bill, so the water would have to be cold. Luckily, the cooking was done on the electric hob; not that I had any intention of doing any: I missed Mafalda’s culinary genius more than I did my freshly laundered sheets and the fragrance of camomile soap. The summer-scented towels, the song of the cicadas, our garden in bloom: all of this brought back that one memory which had been like a spike in my heart, but now was little more than an itchy scab.

 

I decided to sit inside the Barbican for a while, check out the programme for their art gallery and warm myself up a little. I was about to pull the door open when I collided with someone who seemed in a hurry to get out and who nearly threw me to the ground.

“What the hell,” I started, only to find myself confronted with the very cause of that itchy scab.

“Elio,” Oliver said, apparently overcome with some indefinable emotion.

I glared at him, turned around and walked away.

 

I had rehearsed this encounter several times and in my imagination I had been eloquent and deadly.

“Oliver,” I’d say, “Remember when you wondered whether you’d messed me up? Well, you have, big time, so please do me a favour: fuck off and die.”

At the start - soon after that awful Christmas when he’d come to tell us that he was engaged to be married - I had even imagined that I’d kill him if he ever dared contact me again.

I knew that he was writing to my father and that he and Vimini still corresponded: that had seemed to me an unforgivable betrayal. _Maman_ had tried her best to find excuses for Oliver – his strict family, his conventional background, our age difference – but what she didn’t and couldn’t know was how far we’d gone in our lovemaking. I had given Oliver everything and I’d believed he’d done the same for me, only to find out that he’d abused my trust in the most callous manner. He was worse than Judas, nastier than Lucifer, I had thought back then. In time, I came to realise that he’d only been weak, but that consideration only made matters worse. He was a liar, a coward and he’d treated me like I didn’t matter, like I had been a worthless fling.

“Elio, wait,” I heard him call, but I paid him no mind and hurried towards Whitecross Street. Naturally, I stood no chance since his legs were longer than mine and he was – or at least he had been – a jogger.

I flinched when I felt his hand on my shoulder.

“I have nothing to say to you,” I gritted out, and kept walking.

“Let’s at least try to be civil,” he said, and that was as much as I was willing to take. I spun round and confronted him.

“I don’t have to ‘try and be’ anything,” I hissed, “If I see you again, I’ll call the police and report you for stalking. And don’t think even for a second that I won't go through with it."

“Elio, are you okay?” he asked, with a puzzled expression.

I realised I had not uttered a word; I had been standing there like a statue hewn from resentment and bile.  
“Why are you here?” I asked, looking down at my feet.

Somehow I had succeeded in not truly _seeing_ him, aside from a general impression of scruffy blondness.

“I’m teaching a course at Guildhall,” he replied.

Of course he was.

“Have you moved to London?”

“It’s only a short course,” he said, “Aesthetics and the Philosophy of Art.”

I nodded, eyeing the potholes which dotted the pavement.

“Listen, why don’t we get a cup of something hot?”

“I have to go,” I said, “Places to be, people to see.”

“Just one coffee,” he insisted, “Over there,” he went on, indicating an old-fashioned greasy spoon. I convinced myself that I was too cold to say no.

 

“This is one of the last bastions of the resistance to gentrification,” he said, tapping his index finger on the scratched table-top.

I glanced at his wedding ring, which gleamed like the proverbial diamond in the roughness of our surroundings.

It was as incongruous as our conversation and the fact that I still refused to look Oliver in the face.

I stirred sugar into my black coffee and wished I had one of my cousin’s magic pills to see me through this ordeal.

“How’s your wife?” I asked, abruptly. Better get it over with, I thought with a sort of sadistic glee.

He cleared his throat. “Fine,” he said. “She stayed in New York.”

She must be pregnant, I thought.

“She just got a big promotion,” he explained, as though he’d read my mind.

“Why are you here?” I asked again, and this time I hazarded a glance at his face: it was a paler, more haggard version of my Oliver; his hair was shorter and darker, his eyes were red-rimmed and he needed a shave.

“I’ve always wanted to see London,” he said, trying for a smile which shrunk into a grimace.

“Try again.”

He heaved a deep sigh and brushed a hand through his hair, tousling it the way it had been on our first night together. _Don’t think about it, don’t let the door open - just don’t_. 

“Your father is worried,” he replied, taking a sip of his cappuccino, “He told me that you never phone or write. Your mother is beside herself with preoccupation.”

I nearly choked on my coffee.

“What, so you are playing guardian angel now? Bullshit! Besides, my cousin is here too and they could have asked him.”

Oliver chuckled but it was sans mirth.

“If you are talking about Jack,” he started.

“You don’t know him.”

“Let’s see: he’s studying at the LSE, he’s dating a Japanese girl and her brother, he downs more pills than a hypochondriac and he’s as reliable as a broken clock.”

“Twice a day then,” I quipped, before remembering how furious I was. “Have you been spying on us?”

He snorted.

“I was on the phone with Pro and Jack’s sister was there.”

The old nickname rendered me blind with rage.

“That is why, that,” I said, trying vainly not to shout, “They shouldn’t talk about me behind my back and certainly not with you.”

This time I looked him in the eye and caught a glimpse of what could have been pain.

“We never talk about you, but I told them I was coming to London.”

“Teaching at my college: what a strange coincidence,” I sneered, “Strange and unbelievable.”

He didn’t fight my assumption because how could he? Only an idiot would have believed in such tripe as the random trappings of the universe.

Luckily, my BMus in Composition did not include his course and I had neither the time nor the inclination to add to my workload.

“Thanks for the coffee, but please stay out of my life,” I threw the words at him and stood up to go. His hand reached out to touch me, but he froze mid-gesture, surely responding to the revulsion that emanated from every atom of my body.

“Let me walk you home,” he pleaded, “I’m afraid the wind might blow you away.”

“You are hilarious,” I replied, “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m sure you already know where I live.”

He didn’t deny it. I wondered whether he’d seen Pierre and assumed that he was my boyfriend. The idea made me smirk: we had done the deed once, but we’d been wasted and high and I could barely remember how we got off. I had already seen his dick because he had a penchant for nudity and was a bit of a show off.

“Are you eating regular meals?” he asked, sounding like _maman_.

“You are not my mother,” I spat out, “In fact, you are nothing to me.”

I strode out of the cafeteria and was slammed back against the door by a strong gale. I cursed and ducked my head ready to face the elements, but I felt his presence by my side the instant before his fingers closed around my arm. There were layers of fabric between his skin and mine yet the touch still burned me.

“Let go,” I shrugged him off, attracting the attention of a couple of teenage girls in school uniform.

Oliver took a step back, but I was certain that he was about to tail me like a private detective.

“If I let you walk with me, will you promise to leave me alone?”

He shook his head and rummaged inside the pocket of his parka; he pulled out a 20-packet of Silk Cut and offered it to me.

I took out a cigarette and handed the packet back to him.

“Keep it,” he said, “I’m trying to quit.”

“You’re full of virtues,” I said, trying in vain to light up. He cupped his hands around the cigarette, too close to my mouth.

“Never mind,” I said, “I’ll smoke it when I get home."

“Always impatient,” he chided, taking the unlit cigarette from my mouth and placing it between his lips.

“Here,” he sighed, and a moment later I was sucking at a filter moistened by his spit.

“You didn’t promise,” I said, as we walked towards Old Street.

“I don’t want to lie to you.”

I laughed.

“Alice and I were not,” he started.

“Oh, so that’s her name: Alice,” I interjected, “Alice in Wonderland. She chose you well. After all, you exist in your own warped version of reality.”

“I told you back then,” he said, quietly, “We were off, at the time.”

“You conveniently forgot to mention that you were like a switch that needed flicking.”

“Cynicism doesn’t suit you.”

I could have slapped him.

“You mean it doesn’t suit YOU. Wide-eyed innocence is more your cup of tea, as they say over here.”

He stepped in front of me, barring the way.

“I never intended to take advantage of that,” he said, enunciating as though he was talking to someone hard of hearing. My palms itched.

“You played it smoothly,” I said, “Almost like it wasn’t the first time.”

“What do you mean?”

Despite the cold, I felt my cheeks burn. I had waited more than two years to speak these words and now they were setting my insides on fire.

“You made me confess my feelings and pretended to reject me, because you ‘wanted to be good’. It was all a game to you, just like poker. Well, the game’s over.”

His lips were a tense white line.

“You don’t really believe that,” he said.

“Actions speak louder than words.”

He had no rebuttal to offer; I had checkmated him.

It wasn’t as pleasant as I’d thought it would be.

In silence, we reached Pear Tree Street and the council estate where I lived.

“This looks dangerous,” he said, eyeing the graffiti and the rubbish strewn all over the yellow grass which constituted the garden.

“Not as dangerous as you,” I hissed, “You’re poison, Oliver. Poison.”


	2. The Flight from The Enchanter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver's POV.  
> The boy has issues...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: thanks to all of you for being so lovely and for responding so favourably to this story. I couldn't do it without you.
> 
> Secondly: The title of the chapter is also the title of a novel by Iris Murdoch.

I had not thought about Flynn in a long time.

No, that was a lie. I had been reminded of him at the very start of that fateful Italian summer: I had arrived in Sicily and the grimy faces of the _monelli_ running around the dusty courtyards wore the same insolent expression.

Flynn was three years older than me and his family was – as far as I knew, since we never spoke about them – perfectly ordinary: his father was a businessman and his mother did a lot of charity work, just like mine. If they had been Jewish, there would have been little or no difference between our families.

Despite – or perhaps because of - his unremarkable upbringing, Flynn was a rebel.

He’d started smoking cigarettes when he was nine and had moved on to stronger stuff a couple of years later. He’d played cards in trailer parks with men ravaged by years of poverty and alcoholism. I’ll try everything once, he’d used to say.

And he did, more or less. He had _tried_ me too, in his own way.

I adored him, with a single-minded devotion that had bordered on hero-worship. He’d pretended not to notice it, but he was like a medieval king with his favourite courtier: he’d glanced in my direction from time to time to make sure I was following him, before diving head-first in whatever battle he had chosen to fight. He was stone and I was wax.

 

I had been too innocent or maybe just too distracted by Flynn’s mad escapades, to consider the romantic possibilities of my attachment. I wasn’t attracted to girls yet but it didn’t bother me. I was nine when we first met and twelve when he taught me to play poker. A year later, Flynn was gone: his father had been offered a better paid job in another city.  The summer before he'd left had been a season of confused longings and big fights over minor things. Flynn had acquired other friends; I had been relegated to a secondary role and I didn’t like it. We'd tussled and fought, we'd kicked and screamed; despite being younger, I was already taller and heavier than him. He was faster and meaner and he always knew how to find everybody’s weakest spot.

He’d found mine too and I’d repaid him with oblivion.

 

After Flynn, I’d never allowed another boy to get so close to me. I started dating girls, testing the mettle of my masculinity. I constructed a persona by stitching together bits of myself and of men admired by other men. I cultivated nonchalance, elusiveness and a partiality for shallow camaraderie. With women, I was always the seducer and made it very clear who was on top; although never violent, I was always dominant.

 

With Alice, it had been different: she knew me better than most and in her company I could let the mask slip, partially at least. Something was always missing, but I refused to admit it and she wasn’t the probing sort. She let it slide; let me be what I wanted to be. Correction: she let me be what I allowed myself to be.

                     

At first sight, Elio had nothing in common with Flynn: he wasn’t a rebel, he didn’t need to be.

When I first laid eyes on him, my inner alarm went off and I couldn’t understand why: there was nothing special about that skinny boy with the curly hair and freckled face; just another spoilt teenager with too much money and not a care in the world. I had been too sleepy interrogate my instincts and I'd put it off to the following day and then procrastinated over and over again, until it was too late and I was drowning in it, in him.

 

I'd fooled myself that I was attracted to him because he was so feminine. His features were angelic and his body androgynous, but he was undeniably male.

He was also very bright and a gifted musician; passionate and argumentative; secretive and prone to bouts of introversion.

I didn’t want anything to do with him, I insisted. Like the lady in the play, I did protest too much.

Things came to a head during a game of volleyball: I touched him feigning to give him a massage; he shrugged me off as though I carried the plague. Fine, I thought, let’s call the whole thing off.

He had his girl, his Marzia, and I had mine; I shamelessly flirted with Chiara and with every other girl in the vicinity: see? - I gloated - two can play that game.

I played poker in bars and back alleys and I acted the consummate playboy the rest of the time. _Muvi star_ , Elio’s mother had nicknamed me and she couldn’t know how apt the soubriquet was. Until they all believed it, I was safe.

Elio’s father knew that I was hiding; he had never said as much, but he treated me like an injured soldier who refused to acknowledge the gravity of his wounds. He made me wish I had a different father, one who didn’t just issue diktats and expected to be obeyed; one who could accept that life wasn’t always a straight line with only one approved way of being a man.

What would Samuel Perlman have said if he’d seen me sniffing his son’s underwear? Maybe he’d have disapproved, but my father would have dispatched me to a mental hospital.

 

We could have stayed in limbo until my departure, but Elio had decided otherwise. His rebellion had been against me: against my cowardice and dissimulation.

Once breached, the walls came down one by one: I couldn’t say the word ‘love’, but on our first night I gave him my name and took his.

 

The morning after he wished me gone; he was sick of me; he would go back to his girl, I thought. I could do the same: pretend ours was a failed experiment we could both joke about if we’d met five, ten, twenty years later.

Later: how he’d hated that word. Little did he know that I hated it even more.

 

We had a dozen precious days and nights, intense and sensual, during which our roles became interchangeable and I could be woman to his man.

There was the rub. That was the crux of the matter. Those were the seeds of my potential downfall.

 

During our last days in Rome, it became clear to me that I was lost and that I couldn’t let him perceive the depth and width of my despair. He caught a glimpse once or twice, but he was too drunk on life to dwell on it. His youth was like a siren call: men and women were entranced by it, by Elio’s charm and his enthusiasm. He could have had anyone he wanted and I was only one face in that crowd. He would soon forget me, I thought, because he had the world at his feet.

It never occurred to me then that I might have been wrong.

 

When I went back to New York, I found it very hard to sleep without Elio by my side. I found it hard to breathe. Alice suspected something was amiss, but she never asked questions. I let the old life lull me into a stupor and as the days went by, my path was traced. It collided with Alice’s, and our families – who attended the same temple and had known each other for years – took greater pleasure in our engagement than we did.

 

Telling Elio was the hardest thing I’d ever had to do. I should have stayed in New York and phoned him from there, I thought. It might have been cowardly, but wasn’t it worse to be in his presence and being unable to touch him, hold him, kiss him?

After the initial shock, we fell back into the old pattern of desultory verbal communication and unspoken demands.

“Force me to speak or I will die,” I was silently pleading, but he’d already disappeared into a future that did not include me.

 

The recollection of intimacy is often idealised and shorn of its sordid details. I refused to fall into that trap and cherished the memories of our little failures, of the gamy smells and abundant fluids which were the result of sexual intercourse between two men. Months later, already wearing a ring on my finger, I was still missing him.

 

I kept in touch with Samuel and Annella: we seldom spoke on the phone, but corresponded regularly. We never mentioned Elio and I imagined he was doing fine, so it was a surprise when one sunny afternoon I received a call.

“You know how they are,” Vimini said, “They'd never ask for help, they don’t want to inconvenience you.”

I could almost hear her eye-roll.

“That would never occur to you,” I chuckled.

“Why say one thing and mean another?”

She had a point.

“Elio wouldn’t want me to interfere. In fact, I’m the last person in the world he’d go to for help.”

“He’s an idiot.”

“I’m married and we are not on friendly terms.”

“That’s because you are an idiot too.”

Vimini never minced her words.

“I love Alice,” The words rolled off my tongue. I had never told Elio that I loved him, and wasn’t it perverse that black should mean white and vice-versa?

She said nothing.

“He’s probably having the time of his life and he forgot about his family,” I went on, “First time on his own and he’s only a teenager.”

“He’s still very angry with you.”

My heartbeat accelerated.

“Not anymore, surely,” I said, trying to keep my voice from quivering.

Vimini clicked her tongue.

“I suspect that he’s daydreaming of murdering you as we speak.”

“In which case, I better leave him alone.”

“What if he gets into serious trouble?”

A number of tragic scenarios played out in my bewildered mind.

“What sort of trouble?”

“Fede said he might get stabbed by a skinhead. They hate faggots, she said.”

I slumped into my armchair.

“What, why, who’s Fede?”

“Elio’s cousin. Her brother Jack’s in London.”

That was good news.

“Can’t he keep an eye on Elio?”

She laughed and briefed me on the redoubtable Jack, short for Giacomo: he was an interesting boy, maybe a genius, but hardly a reliable one.

“Why does she think Elio might get stabbed?”

“There have been three incidents in his area in the last six months.”

I shuddered.

“Where does he live?”

“The place is called Old Street and it’s like something out of Dickens.”

She gave me his address and I wrote it down on the jotter by the phone.

“Couldn’t he move?”

“You know how stubborn he can be,” she replied, “The apartment is cheap and close to his college.”

There was a question I needed to ask, but I was afraid of the answer.

Vimini read me like a book.

“He’s sharing it with another student. He’s French, but they are just friends.”

She obviously believed otherwise and knew it would hurt me to say it out loud.

“I can’t just drop everything and come to Europe to play knight in shining armour,” I said, although I was already making febrile plans. “I have a job and a wife.”

“You can take her with you, like on a holiday.”

“Very funny”

“She doesn’t know about Elio."

“She never asked.”

Vimini’s silence was more eloquent than a reprimand. At twelve, she was already wiser than me. I wondered whether wisdom in matters of the heart was only attainable before and after the interference of sex which, like a capricious sprite, delighted in upsetting the neatest of apple carts.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I sighed.

“When you talk to him, please don’t tell him I was the one who spilled the beans.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise me?”

“Cross my heart.”

I wasn’t sure I had one worthy of such a pledge.

A few months later, I was on a plane to London.


	3. A Tale of Two Cities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Pierre and Jack.
> 
> Elio's POV first then Oliver's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have read all your comments and I will reply tomorrow (today, since it's 2 am), but let me thank you for being so lovely and supportive.
> 
> The title of the chapter is from a Dickens novel.
> 
> Willoughby House is part of the Barbican estate.

 

The lift was out of order again: it happened so often the housing officers no longer bothered with sticking a notice on the doors. I could have walked to the far side of the estate to check if the other one was working, but the odds were stacked against it; besides, even if I got lucky I didn’t fancy taking my chances along the badly lit corridors of the fifth floor.  I decided to take the stairs. On the second floor landing, I nearly bumped into a skeletal man whose age I could never guess; his name was Spike – although I’d heard him pronounced by his druggie friends as _spake_ or _spark_ – and in another life he might have been a rat; or maybe he was a rat in human form; it was hard to tell. I always looked away when I met him, either staring right in front of me or down at my feet. He staggered down the steps and I heard him mumble something which I preferred not to decrypt.

I wondered what Oliver would have made of him; I imagined them side by side, one towering over the other, like an oak tree next to a stinging nettle. Almost everybody was dwarfed by Oliver’s stature, because he was so, just so- I shook my head forcefully: no thinking of him, not even for a second. I knew that if I allowed him to worm his way back into my thoughts it would be hell to drive him out again. Well, at least the long climb had warmed me up and calmed me down.

That feeling of contentment wasn’t destined to survive for long: when I reached my front door, a pungent reek of smoke reached me even before I went inside.

 _What the ever loving fuck_ , was my first thought, which translated into:

 _“Putain,_ _mais_ _qu’_ _est_ - _ce que tu fous?”_

Pierre emerged from the kitchenette with a dish-towel pressed against his mouth; he was coughing and his blue eyes were red from the smoke and wet with tears.

He pushed me outside the door and closed it behind him.

“Why isn’t the alarm working?” I asked, but he’d started coughing so I had to wait for it to be over.

“I cut the wires,” he croaked, after a while, “You know that it goes off every time we smoke.”

“Only if you stand under it,” I countered, even though I know what his reply was going to be.

“The phone’s there,” he said, right on cue, “You can’t expect me to get all sexed up without a fag.”

“Very funny, except that now our flat’s on fire.”

“Always dramatic,” he sighed, “I just wanted to warm some water up in a pan; for the bath, _tu vois_?”

“Why not use the kettle?”

He glared at me.

“It would have taken ages.”

“But it wouldn’t have turned the kitchen into the set of The Towering Inferno.”

“The _quoi_?”

“Never mind,” I said, since I knew Pierre didn’t care two straws about films, especially if they weren’t made in France. “You forgot the pan was on the fire.”

“Thorsten rang,” he explained, and that was the proverbial last straw.

“You almost choked to death because of that jerk? Last time he was here, he stole a bottle of vodka.”

“He didn’t steal it, he borrowed it. He’ll replace it next time.”

“Yeah, and I am the Last of the Mohicans.”

“ _Quoi_?” He wasn’t any more acquainted with foreign novels than he was with films.

I strode back inside, eager to check the damage inflicted to our meagre possessions. The ‘Baby Belling’ cooker would probably withstand a nuclear meltdown, but our set of cheap Woolworths pans were a lot less sturdy.

Predictably, he’d used the largest of the lot; it was black like coal and unsalvageable. Fortunately, there seemed to be no other casualties.

I opened the fridge and pulled out a can of Tennent’s Super.

“What’s happened?” he asked, as we sat on the moth-eaten sofa.

“Aside from you trying to enact a suttee in our flat?”

“Yeah,” he said, prising the can from my hand and pulling its tab. He probably had no idea what a suttee was, but he knew me well enough to suspect something was afoot.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, through gritted teeth.

He nodded, glugging down a mouthful of lager. I drank too and belched; he imitated me and soon we were laughing and playfully punching each other’s arms. That was why I liked living with Pierre: he was simple and open; he bore no grudges and played no games.

“Come on Elly, what’s up? Bach’s got your tongue?”

It was his new favourite pun.

“It’s all good,” I replied, pulling the packet of Silk Cuts out of my coat’s pocket.

He whistled.

“Who gave you that?”

“I bought it.”

“ _Non_ , you didn’t. Found yourself a sugar _papa_?”

I tried very hard not to blush, but failed. He pinched my thigh.

“You lucky bastard!” he exclaimed. “Who is he? One of those city studs with red braces begging to be pinged?”

I grimaced.

“You’re always so damn picky,” he laughed. “Who was it then? One of your teachers? A professor, like the one in My Fair Lady?”

He may not have liked films, but he loved musicals.

“He’s not my teacher.”

He’d scented blood and was going after his prey.

“But he’s a professor.”

“Where’s your lighter?” I asked, hoping to distract him.

“Here,” he said, tossing me a box of matches.

We lighted our cigarettes and smoked in silence for a bit. The window was still open and a chilly wind was ruffling the polyester net curtains.

“It’s not that Irish guy with the glasses, is it?”

He meant my Technique tutor, who was one of his favourites.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That bad, ah? Come on, it can’t be that... oh wait, no, I know who it is! It’s Oliver, isn’t it? Is he here, does he want to get into your pants again, will you let him?”

“He’s married.”

“Is his wife here with him?”

“In New York.”

“Did he try to jump you?”

“Nothing happened and nothing will happen,” I said, “We were done when he dumped me; I told you that.”

I had made the mistake of telling him about Oliver one night after our third joint and half way through a bottle of cheap vodka.

“If you are REALLY done, maybe I could try my luck,” he smirked, “You know how much I love older men with big... feet.”

The idea of Pierre and Oliver in bed together made me sick.

“He’s not interested in men,” I said, “He just gave it a whirl because he had nothing better to do. Crema is not like New York: he got bored.”

“Maybe he likes his men to have a bit more meat on their bones,” he argued.

I hoped that he was joking, but maybe he had a point. Maybe my gender and age weren’t the problem and what had really driven Oliver away was the realisation that I wasn’t his type after all. Perhaps I’d just been the appetizer but what he’d really needed was a big, juicy steak. Pierre was my age, but looked more mature; he was into body building and his biceps were thicker than my thighs.

Would Oliver prefer that? Of course not, I berated myself, he was married to a woman, so of course he wouldn’t want a muscle-bound French boy who probably thought Celan was a lube brand.

“In any case, we are not going to see him,” I concluded, throwing the empty can in the already overflowing rubbish bin.  “If we ignore him, he’ll go away.”

“That doesn’t work for most things, like utility bills,” he said, indicating the pile of letters on the counter-top. I glanced through the various envelopes and my heart soared when I saw the UCAS letterhead. I opened the missive and read it avidly.

“I got it, I got it!” I screamed, jumping up and down like a lunatic.

“What?” he shouted back.

“The grant I applied for,” I explained, “They are giving me two thousand pounds per academic year. We are rich! How about you, did you get a reply?”

“Not yet.”

“If you get your two thousand, we’ll have a hot bath every day. Speaking of which,” I filled the kettle to the brim and switched it on.

“Who’s the unlucky bastard?” he asked, lighting another cigarette. It annoyed me, but I said nothing. They were Oliver’s cigarettes and I wanted them to last longer than one evening.

“His name’s Andreas,” I said, grabbing the packet and putting back into my coat pocket. “We are going dancing.”

“At Subway?”

“No, at the Blitz.”

He made a face.

“Not getting laid then.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” I replied, sticking my tongue out, “I’m not a slut like you.”

“Your virginity won’t grow back, just so you know,” he quipped.

I lobbed the soiled dish-towel at his head and it hit him square in the face. He let out a string of profanities, but I was already in the bathroom pouring the first load of hot water into the bath-tub.

 

 

I didn’t fancy going back to my apartment, but I couldn’t very well stay outside Elio’s building, gazing up at it like a wolf howling at the moon.

The shock of seeing him, of touching him, wasn’t going to abate any time soon, no matter where I went or what I did; at least there I’d be able to sit down with a drink and ponder on my next move. He hadn’t even wanted to look me in the eye, that’s how much he loathed the sight of me. I deserved that and worse, but this wasn’t about me; it was about how thin and worn-out he’d become; how his face had lost its roundness and acquired sharp edges and dark hollows; how the knobs of his spine were almost visible underneath several layers of clothing.

Underneath my concern for his well-being was the painful certainty that my flesh still desired his; as for my heart, I wasn’t going to interrogate him, because he was not to be trusted.

I had just sat down with a tumbler of Laphroaig, when the doorbell rang.

Few people knew where I lived and Elio wasn’t among them, but I couldn’t help the glimmer of hope that made my heart beat faster; like I said: not to be trusted.

When I opened the door, I came face to face with a skinny black-haired boy who wore rimless glasses and whose gaze was piercing and slightly owlish.

He stared me up and down and his mouth curved into the palest of smiles.

“And so you are Oliver,” he said, stepping into my apartment as though he owned the place.

“And who might you be?” I asked, but I had already guessed. They didn’t exactly look alike, but there was a definite resemblance in both colouring and build.

“Fede said you play poker,” he replied, “I hope you’re better at it than at lying.”

“Why are you here?” I asked, sternly.

“Not to lecture you, if that’s what you thought,” Jack replied. He’d found my glass of whisky and he was sniffing it.

“Laphroaig,” he stated, “How did you find him?”

“Sit down,” I said, “Have something to drink.”

“No thanks, I’m on a diet.”

“What sort of diet?”

“I can’t mix pills with alcohol.”

We sat on my couch, although he was perched on its edge rather than fully ensconced in it.

“He seems unwell,” I said, “Like he doesn’t eat enough.”

“We are students,” he smirked, “Have you forgotten what it’s like?”

“Maybe I have.”

“You’re not that old.”

“Old enough,” I insisted, failing to keep the bitterness out.

He stared me in the eye with that bird-like gaze of his.

“But innocent like a baby,” he concluded.

I didn’t know what to say; what a weird boy he was and yet I didn’t dislike him.

“You are not at all like your building’s namesake.”

“What?”

“This is Willoughby House,” he said, “Sense and Sensibility.”

“I wouldn’t have had you down as a Jane Austen type.”

He scrunched his nose and in doing that he reminded me of his cousin.

“I don’t have a type,” he replied.

I sipped my whisky and wondered why I felt so powerless in Jack’s presence.

It was as though he was judge and jury and I was in the docks without a defence attorney.

“Why are you here?” I asked, again.

“I only wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

“What fuss?”

“Now I know.”

“Know what?”

“What Elio is really like,” he replied, “And I’m pleasantly surprised.”

Was that flattery or condemnation? I had no clue.

He stood up to go.

“What do you think I should do,” I asked.

“Here,” he said, handing me a sachet filled with hash, “That should help you more than my advice. No, you don’t have to pay me, consider it a house-warming present.”

I thanked him. “I would still like to hear you advice.”

“Live a little,” he said, and was gone.


	4. Fatal Attraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio doesn't really hate Oliver, he's just very very pissed at him.
> 
> Mind the "smut" tag from the outset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elio's POV then Oliver's
> 
> Thanks again for your kindness and support. You are the best!

I undid the buttons of his shirt from top to bottom: he was wearing nothing underneath. I removed his swimsuit too and his dick stood upright, already wet.

I looked down at him: his eyes were closed, his lips parted; he was panting already, like after a long run. He may have been doing that before, because his skin smelled of sweat and the hair on his chest was matted. I bent down and licked it, from the enticing tuft at the hollow of his throat down to the fuzzy line which led to his groin. When I suckled his nipples, he clawed at my curls.

“Elio,” he moaned, and I smiled, working my way down again.

His balls were tight and heavy, I couldn’t fit them in my mouth. I buried my nose in the bush at the base of his cock and licked that too. It was desperate for attention, that delicious dick of his, but I had other intentions.

I had never done it before, but I’d been thinking about it for a while.

“On your hands and knees,” I murmured, and he did.

His ass, his apricot, with its rounded cheeks and inviting seam, was everything I’d ever desired: I nibbled at the soft skin and brushed my cheeks against it, until I couldn’t wait any longer.

As soon as my lips made contact with his furled hole, he cried out, as though scolded by hot water.

“Should I stop?” I asked, but it would have killed me had he said yes.

He didn’t, so I went for it, going from mere eating to devouring.

I was making noises that were hardly human, loud growls and satisfied grunts, as I slobbered all over his anus, sucking and spearing it with my tongue.

It was sudden: one moment I was pushing my way inside of him and the next he was twitching and jolting under me, his control gone, his voice reduced to hoarse mewls. He was invoking god and me, begging me to stop, to never stop, to fuck him, to have him, all of him, to never let him leave.

 

I woke up in my bed, cold, alone and two strokes from orgasm. I attended to my needs but it was only temporary satisfaction. It left me hollow, as always, but even more so this time. Damn you, Oliver, I raged. You just had to come back and scratch at my scars, didn’t you?

I hadn’t looked at him properly in order to avoid this, but it had all been in vain. His presence was more than enough; the knowledge that he was close by, that he was teaching at my college and probably staying in the neighbourhood were doing a number on my subconscious already. Heaven knows what damage he would do if I let him. The situation was clear: Oliver was married; he’d settled down and was so safe in his relationship that he hadn’t thought twice about swooping in to play the noble saviour of the poor, wayward ex-lover. Had I even been a lover? I scoffed. No, not even that, probably. Some sort of experiment, I guessed. He needed to test a theory or maybe, yes, that was it: the entire summer holiday had been his stag party.

I felt a surge of twisted pride at this realisation: Oliver knew he was about to commit to Alice and he’d chosen to sow the last of his wild oats with Chiara and me and who knows how many other boys and girls. I had fallen for him and because he was – after all – my father’s guest, he’d allowed me a fraction more of himself. Perhaps he’d enjoyed it too: both the taking of my virginity and the massaging of his ego, for what could be more flattering than having a boy do everything he’d asked? He was like a character out of De Sade, cruel and depraved, but infinitely more dishonest, as he’d wrapped his actions in fake sentiment.

I had resented him before, but I was starting to hate him now. He could have stayed away, but obviously he wanted to torture me some more. Well, I wouldn’t let him.

 

“I thought we were just going to have sausage rolls at Greggs,” said Pierre, as we entered the tiny Chinese restaurant in Gerrard Street.

“I told you that I cashed the first cheque of my grant,” I said, “I am flush.”

“Not your American professor’s fuck money then?”

“He’s not mine and I told you I don’t want to talk about him.”

We found a spot by the window and were immediately provided with menus and a pot of green tea. Pierre hated the stuff, so I poured some for myself only.

“Is he not teaching at the Guildhall?”

I sighed and tried to silence him by offering him a cigarette. It didn’t work.

“Yes, okay, but he will be gone by the end of the academic year. He was called in to replace Carey.”

We placed our order and the shrivelled waiter brought our beers while we were still smoking.

“What happened to Carey,” Pierre asked, with a malicious smile, “Did the American have him kidnapped?”

“He’s not the mafia. Carey got badly injured while training for the London marathon.”

My friend broke down laughing.

“You don’t really believe that!” he chuckled.

“It’s true,” I argued, “He was part of the Barbican Arts contingent. The City of London is sponsoring them.”

“And they happened to ask someone from New York to take his place?”

“Maybe they know each other,” I replied, “Oliver is very good at making friends.”

“Not so good at keeping them, it seems.”

“It works fine when there’s an ocean between them.”

“Not in your case.”

I took a sip of my beer.

The waiter brought our food: chow mein, Kung Pao chicken, sweet and sour pork, and egg fried rice; we tucked in like locusts feasting on a maize field. I hadn’t had a decent meal ever since I’d come back from my Christmas break.

“How did it go with Arnaud?” he asked, after having polished his first serving of chicken and rice.

“Who?”

“Your date?”

My early morning wet dream had made me forget about the previous night.

“Andreas,” I countered, feigning offence at his mistake, “It was fun, kind of.”

“Top or bottom?” he asked, filling his plate with noodles and chunks of pork.

“You’re so shallow,” I protested.

“Oh my god, like your Oliver isn’t the living copy of the Vitruvian man.”

“How did you even know what that is?”

“Maybe because I like guys with great bodies?” he sneered.

“And anyway, I never said Oliver was good looking.”

I couldn’t remember what I’d said; I had been too far gone.

“Yes, you did. You said he was some Greek sculptor’s statue made human.”

“I did not.”

“You so did. I can’t remember his name, but-”

“Praxiteles,” said a voice behind me. Damn my family.

“How did he know where to find us?” I hissed at Pierre, but he smiled then stuffed his mouth with rice.

Jack sat down without waiting for my invitation, which he must have known would never come. He made eye contact with the waiter then he signalled numbers five and three with his raised hand.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Ordering my dinner, obviously,” he replied, taking a cigarette from a packet of Philip Morris Special Blend.

The waiter brought his wonton soup and crispy duck in next to no time, as though theirs was a well-oiled routine.

He and Pierre chatted desultorily about their coursework and common acquaintances: I never ceased to be amazed that they attended the same university, since they were poles apart in character and intellect.

“By the way, I met Oliver,” Jack said, turning towards me.

I could have murdered Pierre, but I only looked daggers at him.

“Not my fault!” he said.

I transferred my death stare onto my cousin, who wasn’t in the least bothered.

“He’s not at all like I imagined,” Jack stated.

“I didn’t know he figured in your imagination.”

He ignored my sarcasm.

“Neither stupid nor vain,” he continued.

Why wasn’t I in my stinky flat, listening to my records, instead of being lectured about a man I only wanted to forget?

“Your uncle thought that he was shy,” I argued.

“You and your father are very alike,” he said.

“Dramatic,” Pierre interjected, and he wasn’t contradicted.

“Oliver can be what he likes, I don’t care, as long as he stays away from me,” I concluded, as calmly as I could.

“I gave him some of my best hash.”

“What did you, why?”

I was inches from losing it. I had never been too keen on history, but I started to empathise strongly with every invaded territory since the dawn of time.

“He was too tense, he needed to loosen up.”

That was close.

“Did you two, you know, exchange fluids or something?” asked Pierre.

And then the dam broke.

“I need to get some fresh air,” I spat, and strode out.

Let Jack pay for dinner: he had ruined mine, after all. I had every intention of walking in the direction of Soho in search of some fun, when curiosity got the better of me. I went back inside.

“Where did you meet him?” I asked.

Jack acted as though I’d never stormed off, while Pierre – in true French fashion – was too engrossed in his food to care about the ebb and flow of the conversation.

“I went to his place,” my cousin said, fussily chewing his duck, “Anonymous, but quite functional.”

I wished I were a dog so that I could bite him.

“I don’t give a damn about the furniture,” I started, but he went on.

“He was drinking good single malt whisky.”

“I like him already,” Pierre chipped in.

“How did you know where to find him?”

Jack’s eyebrows shot up a fraction.

“I asked your mother,” he said. The insult to my intelligence wasn’t uttered but heavily implied.

I felt as though everybody I cared about was conspiring against me.

“You like Brutalist architecture, don’t you?” he added and, with the swiftness of a conjurer, he slipped a folded square of paper in my jacket’s pocket.

 

It had been a stressful day and talking to Alice over the phone had only made it worse.

“Aaron said you should be careful in that part of London,” she’d said, “Statistically, it’s quite likely you might get assaulted, especially after dark.”

Aaron was a friend of her family and a self-proclaimed authority on all things foreign. She hated travelling and his bleak tales hardly helped.

“I’ll be fine. How’s the new job?”

She’d launched into a diatribe against a colleague, but she’d tired half way through and started talking about her mother’s visit instead.

“She asked again why we are not ‘enlarging’ the family.”

“What did you tell her?”

Alice had sighed and I had imagined her disgruntled expression which I knew so well.

“The usual, but it’s getting harder to fend them off.”

“You are doing great.”

She’d been silent for a moment and then:

“I couldn’t tell her the truth, could I?”

“What truth?”

“Do you really want me to say it?”

I’d hesitated.

“No, I guess not.”

We could hardly conceive when we hadn’t had sex in months.

The conversation had strayed to other topics and we’d been in good terms again by the end of it, but I couldn’t shrug off the stench of failure which was hovering around me like London fog.

I decided to sample some of Jack’s hash and was just started on my first reefer when the doorbell rang.

“Can’t stay away,” I mumbled.

“Have you come back to share in the fun?” I said, flinging the door open.

It wasn’t Jack who stared back at me, but Elio.

He was dressed in black and smelled of smoke and soy sauce. His complexion was less anaemic and his eyes were hard and mean. He pushed in and slammed the door behind him. I felt the reverberations in my guts.

“What the fuck is this?” he hissed, indicating me, the joint in my hand and the room we were in.

“My home away from home,” was my feeble attempt to calm him down.

“Not funny,” he said, coming close enough that I could count the freckles on his nose. It took all I had not to brush my fingers over them. I puffed on the weed and felt a lead weight settle on the pit of my belly.

“Whatever it is you are doing, stop it,” he whispered. His voice vibrated with disdain, but my body took it as praise. My skin was tingling in places I’d long neglected. One of them in particular was clenching and unclenching, like a starving mouth finally scenting food.

“Look, Will Carey is a good friend of mine. When he wrote his monograph on Pseudo Longinus-”

“I have read it,” he exclaimed, “His interpretation of Sappho’s Ode to Jealousy was very... stimulating.”

“I thought so too. We discussed it while jogging in Central Park.”

“Is he still in hospital?”

“No, but the recovery will be long and painful. He was hit by a car.”

“I don’t know him at all, but I’m sorry.”

He looked chastened, like that faraway afternoon on Lake Garda. I thought I'd better seize my chance.

“ _Tregua_?” I said, extending my hand.

He glanced at it then at me, his lip pressed together.

“Okay,” he sighed, and met me half way.

As soon as my fingers touched his, the heaviness in my groin translated into a thudding like the beat of a drum all through my veins. I didn’t know what to do and would have stayed like that until the joint burnt my hand, but Elio drew back suddenly, as if he’d been stung. He was glaring at my ring and biting the inside of his cheek.

“I should go,” he said, “By the way, I got my grant from UCAS so your guardian angel services are not needed. Not that they ever were. And I have all the friends that I need. Go back to your wife, there’s nothing for you here.”

I heard the door bang and his retreating steps echoed long after he’d gone.


	5. The Dark Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver may not have been 100% honest... 
> 
> Meet Will Carey, Oliver's friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm Budd is a philosopher and the author of Music and the Emotions (1985)

A week had passed since Elio’s visit and I had only caught glimpses of him along corridors or walking away, in the distance. They were so fleeting I might have imagined them. Once I believed to have spotted him at the back of the auditorium during one of my lectures, but it could have been wishful thinking. Hope was my last resort and I wasn’t ready to kill it yet.

The weather showed no signs of blooming into spring and was increasingly wet and windy. It was a grey and depressing Sunday afternoon when I walked to Will Carey’s house. He owned a semi-detached off City Road, in the curiously named Worship Street. His girlfriend – a red-head named Frieda – opened the door and showed me into the invalid’s quarters, which had been set up inside the living room.

It was a bright and functional space, with French windows and a view over the tiny but well-kept garden. Will was lying down on the bed, his back propped up by a number of pillows. His left leg was in a cast and so was his left arm.

“Oliver, my boy!” he greeted me, placing the book he was reading face down on the bedside table.

“You look so much better than the last time I saw you,” I replied, as I bent down to kiss him on the cheek. His grey eyes were no longer dimmed by the morphine, but there were wrinkles on his forehead which hadn’t been there before.

“The doctor halved the dosage of my painkillers,” he replied, patting the mattress next to him with his good hand. “Fried makes me drink her outlandish concoctions.”

“Poppy seeds?”

He laughed.

“I wish! No, it’s more like a revolting mixture of valerian, turmeric , ginger and something else whose name I have happily managed to forget.”

“I am so glad that you are doing better.”

He nodded and I realised I was not used to seeing him with short hair. They had cut it after the accident and there was a large bandage at the back of his head, where a deep gash had required sutures.

“Enough about me,” he replied, “Let’s talk about you.”

I knew that it was going to happen: like every Englishman worth his salt, Will didn’t like to complain about his misadventures and would rather direct his focus elsewhere.

“What is there to say? I’m here to help an old friend and maybe see the sights, if the weather improves.”

He chuckled.

“You’re blending in already, I see,” he said. “Why isn’t Alice with you?”

 I explained the reasons behind my wife’s defection, but he seemed unconvinced.

“Is she coming to stay for a long week-end at least? The May bank holiday is just around the corner.”

“She hates travelling and especially flying.”

“How’s your new book coming along, the one about the Sophists,” he asked, when he saw that I was eager to change subjects.

“It’s on the back burner. I’m catching up with Malcolm Budd at the moment.”

He frowned and I hastened to reassure him.

“You are doing me a favour, buddy. I was kind of stuck and you’ve given me the perfect excuse for procrastinating.”

“My accident was a godsend then,” he smiled.

“That wasn’t,” I stuttered, “That didn’t come out right.”

“But it was, wasn’t it? You must have been looking for a reason to leave New York.”

He’d always had a knack for hitting the nail on the head. In a way, Jack had reminded me of Will, minus the latter’s amiability.

“What makes you think that?”

We were interrupted by Frieda, who brought in coffee for me and a steaming mug containing a smelly, greenish brew for Will. I helped her set the tray down on the low table by the bed. She announced that she was going to the shops, asked if we needed anything then promptly marched out and left us alone. She’d barely closed the door when he asked me for a cigarette.

“I guess you are not supposed to smoke,” I said.

“I quit a year ago to train for the marathon.”

“Wise decision.”

“It wasn’t the nicotine that nearly killed me.”

“Sorry, but I’m trying to stop too.”

“How very virtuous of you,” he quipped.

“You’re the second person to say that.”

“And who was the first?”

I sipped my coffee but was too hasty and it scolded my mouth.

“Give it to me,” he said.

“You’ve got your tisane.”

“Throw it outside, in the rose bush,” he said, and when I demurred, he added, “It’s what friends do for each other. I’d do it for you.”

“Frieda will smell the coffee in your breath.”

“I keep Polo mints for that purpose.”

“You thought of everything.”

“That’s what philosophers are paid for.”

“And to be mean to other philosophers,” I argued.

He laughed and I handed him my coffee. While he drank, I disposed of the contents of the other mug as directed.

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

I was certain he wouldn’t let it go; he never did.

“Do you know an Italian student named Elio Perlman?”

Will gazed at me, a puzzled expression on his face.

“Not one of mine,” he replied, “He’s year 1, but I have heard about him; all good things: he’s talented, clever, bit of a know-it-all, but that’s never hurt any artist.”

My heart soared at the praise, which was silly, all considered.

“Have you heard him play?”

“No, but Nolan mentioned that he’s one hell of a pianist.”

Daniel Nolan was one of Elio’s Technique teachers.

“Yes, he really is.”

“So he’s the one who’s ragged you about not smoking.”

I couldn’t deny it, so I said nothing.

“You went to Italy three years ago, the summer before we met at Columbia.”

I walked to the French windows and looked outside. A fine drizzle has started to fall and, for some reason, it made me want to cry.

“You met him over there.”

“I was staying at his house,” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant, “His father is an esteemed academic. He helped knock my book into shape.”

“Samuel Perlman, of course!” he exclaimed, “You never mentioned that you knew him.”

“I don’t like to name-drop.”

“And you went back to Italy that Christmas,” he murmured, as though to himself, “Already engaged to Alice.”

I caught my breath and went absolutely still. Will let a few minutes pass then I heard the clink of the porcelain mug as it touched the wooden surface of the bedside table.

“What happened between you and the Perlman kid?” he asked, but it was obvious that he’d already guessed.

“I wish I had a cigarette now,” I sighed.

He laughed, “I have an emergency stash in the bottom drawer,” he said, indicating the old-fashioned tallboy at the far end of the room.

“A packet of mints won’t disguise this kind of stench,” I warned.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

I found the half-full packet of Marlboros and lighted two cigarettes, placing one between his lips. He sucked on it with an air of undiluted ecstasy.

“You’re still in love with him,” he said, and I nearly choked on my first inhale.

“Who said I was in love?” I croaked, as soon as I’d stopped coughing.

He gave me a scornful look.

“Was he in love too?” he asked.

“He was only seventeen. You know what it’s like at that age.”

“I was never a precocious genius.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. Emotionally, he was just a teenager like any other.”

“Is that your professional opinion or are you just talking shit because that’s easier than the alternative?”

I drew a deep breath and felt the rage that I had suppressed for months rise to the surface.

“Why are we talking about this? I am married and he’s having the time of his life, dating boys his own age and eating junk food, like all students do. We have nothing in common, not a thing.”

I was close to shouting, so I forced myself to calm down.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scream at you,” I apologised. I opened the window and threw my cigarette into the garden. “I better let you rest.”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” he said, “But things don’t go away just because we decide to ignore them. Because of some crazy coincidence, you and this boy are in the same-” he stopped, his eyes wide as saucers.

“Oh my god, I’m being an idiot! It’s not a coincidence, is it? Out of the three offers I got, you advised that I take this teaching job. London - you insisted - is very prestigious; it will look great on your resume: you knew he was going to be a student here.”

“I wasn’t sure at the time.”

“But you knew that he was going to apply.”

I couldn’t lie to him; I nodded, facing away from him to hide my shame.

“I only wanted to know,” I started, “I wasn’t going to ask you to do anything, but I was hoping you’d end up by teaching him and that you’d notice how talented he was.”

He crushed his cigarette on the inside of the coffee mug.

“And you’d have been satisfied with a few random comments here and there,” he said, clearly sceptical.

“What else could I have done?”

“Tell the truth, for starters.”

“I haven’t lied to you.”

He snorted.

“You have done little else,” he chided, but then he relented. “I realise how scary it must be, but you can’t surrender before you’ve even joined the fight.”

“It’s not like that. I’m not afraid of dying.”

“No, you’re afraid of living.”

I was getting angry again.

“You weren’t there three years ago,” I hissed, “I was. Elio and I had a great summer, but he was trying things out, like all teenagers do. He was okay when I told him about my engagement.”

“I bet that he wasn’t. You’d have kept in touch and wouldn’t have needed me otherwise.”

Damn all philosophers and their shrewdness.

“I should have told him about Alice,” I said, “He’s upset because I lied. Well, technically I didn’t, because we’d split up before I’d gone to Italy.”

“He thinks you used him,” he countered, “I know I would.”

“Maybe,” I said, “But that doesn’t alter reality: I have a wife and he has the whole world waiting for him.”

Will’s face contracted in a grimace.

“I better take one of those damn pills,” he said, indicating a yellow box marked ‘three times a day’. I gave him one and poured him a glass of water from the bottle of Buxton which sat on the desk along with the medicines.

As he leaned back and closed his eyes, I set out to eliminate every trace of our misdemeanours: I walked out into the garden and rinsed both mugs with mineral water, getting rid of the cigarette butt and ashes. When I returned inside, Will was chewing on a mint.

“Thanks to my stupid accident, you have the chance to find out what you really want out of life. If that turns out to be Elio Perlman, you better face the music this time.”

“You were never this wise.”

“Brushing against death underneath the Barbican tunnel will do that to a man.”

I heard the front door open and close and stood up to take my leave.

“Next time you come see me, you better bring me something to drink.”

Again, that reminded me of Jack.

“You can’t mix pills and booze.”

“Who said anything about mixing?”

I hugged him loosely, careful not to jostle his injured arm, and exited the room.

“How many did he smoke this time?” Frieda asked, as she accompanied me outside. The rain had stopped, but the sky was a dull, uniform yellowish hue.

“Just the one,” I replied. I didn’t know her well, but she seemed lovely and I didn’t want to lie to her.

“He behaves like a boy sometimes.”

“Don’t we all?”

She smiled and there was no malice in her limpid green eyes.


	6. The Apt Pupil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio makes a new friend.  
> There is a bit of flirting and a smidgen of a cliffhanger.
> 
> I love you all and your comments make me super-duper-happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quotes are from Music and The Emotions by Malcolm Budd (1985).

I had not been able to resist and I was cursing my lack of self-restraint.

Oliver had been distributing handouts to the students at the front of the class when I had succeeded in sneaking in without being spotted. I sat at the back, scooting down my seat to make sure my curls wouldn’t stick out.

My intention had been to stay only for a few minutes in order to find out whether he was any good at his job. I was ready to sneer and be dismissive, but as soon as I clapped eyes on him, my resolve weakened: he was wearing a turquoise v-neck sweater and navy trousers; his eyes seemed bluer, even from a distance.

“If he wore glasses,” I thought, “he’d be the right kind of severe and distinguished.”

I caught myself before I started fantasising about Oliver marking papers while I sat on his lap and - no, not going there. I shook my head and recalled how I’d accused Pierre of being shallow for favouring looks over substance.

Never forget that he’s married and that he chewed you up and spat you out, was my gospel and I would have to abide by it.

While I’d been having this conversation with my subconscious, Oliver had begun his lecture.

“ _Therefore, not only is melodic beauty for each person both specifically musical and anomalous; the emotion experienced is itself specific to music. This supposed 'fused and indescribable' emotion Gurney explained by reference to a theory of Darwin’s that connects music and sexual excitement.”_

He went on, quoting Darwin:

_“Musical tones and rhythm were used by our half-human ancestors, during the season of courtship, when animals of all kinds are excited not only by love, but by the strong passions of jealousy, rivalry and triumph. From the deeply-laid principle of inherited associations, musical tones in this case would be likely to call up vaguely and indefinitely the strong emotions of a long-past age. As we have every reason to suppose that articulate speech is one of the latest, as it certainly is the highest, of the arts acquired by man, and as the instinctive power of producing musical notes and rhythms is developed low down in the animal series, it would be altogether opposed to the principle of evolution, if we were to admit that man’s musical capacity has been developed from the tones used in impassioned speech. We must suppose that the rhythms and cadences of oratory are derived from previously developed musical powers. We can thus understand how it is that music, dancing, song, and poetry are such very ancient arts. The impassioned orator, bard, or musician, when with his varied tones and cadences he excites the strongest emotions in his hearers, little suspects that he uses the same means by which his half human ancestors long ago aroused each other’s ardent passions, during their courtship and rivalry.”_

This immediately brought me back to that night at Le Danzing, when Oliver had been freer than I’d even seen him before or since. It also reminded me of how I’d used my music to flirt with him and capture his attention. Could it be that we’d ruined everything by talking? Or had we not talked about the things that really mattered?

_“The emotion specific to music is a distillate from, it is the sublimated quintessence of, primitive sexual passions, and it has descended to us by inherited associations through the ages. The root of the impressiveness of music lies in the fusion and the sublimation of the strongest elementary emotions which, according to Darwin, were associated with the primeval activity of following musical sounds and rhythms with pleasure.”_

As I listened to his impassioned exposition, I was slowly being hypnotised by the sound of his voice. I had to escape or risk being ensnared again by Oliver’s seductive charms. I waited until someone asked a question and walked out.

It had been a terrible idea: not only was he an eloquent lecturer, but he’d also acquired a new persona that I’d never had to contend with before. Now he’d ceased being only the gorgeous _Muvi Star_ who had sunbathed in heaven and shared my bed, and he had turned also into the stern and sexy university Professor who would scold me if I didn’t pay attention and confused Budd with Collingwood. I trembled with desire and disgust: was I so childish and callow to fall for this clichéd role-playing? The student and the teacher – like the doctor and the patient – was the most banal of sex tropes and I would be damned rather than give in to its lures. I needed a smoke.

“Is it over yet?” asked a blond boy with a faint Nordic accent.

“It’s only just started,” I replied, “If you hurry, you’ll catch most of it.”

He sighed and scratched the back of his head.

“I must have got the timing wrong,” he explained, “I’m seeing this girl, Lucia, and she promised she’d go to lunch with me today. She said half past one, I’m sure she did.”

It was twenty to two.

“Maybe you got the day wrong.”

“I don’t think so,” he replied, frowning. “It’s the third time she’s ditched me, one way or another.”

“Time to get the message, don’t you think?” I suggested, to him and myself.

“You could be right,” he agreed. “Well, I better go.”

“There’s a cafe just around the corner.”

“Thanks,” he said, smiling. “I’m Petri: nice to meet you.”

“Elio: same here.” We shook hands.

 

“She’s older than you,” I guessed.

We were eating salt beef and pickles with dollops of mustard so yellow it was almost pop-art. Petri had insisted to pay and I’d let him. The UCAS grant couldn’t perform miracles considering that I was still waiting for my housing benefits and Pierre continued to be skint.

“Do you know her?”

“No, just a shot in the dark,” I replied.

He’d told me that he was studying art at Central Saint Martins and working part-time at the Tate. He’d met Lucia at a party and, according to him, they’d hit it off over a discussion about Dorothea Tanning.

“Were you drunk?”

“Not really. I just had four pints of bitter and about a dozen shots.”

I stared.

“I’m Danish, I’m used to it.”

“So you made out with her and asked her out to lunch.”

“Sort of,” he replied, “Didn’t you enjoy the lecture?”

He had seen me sneak out, evidently.

“Sort of,” I echoed his words then decided to come clean. After all – I thought - it’s always easier to confess our sins to strangers.

“I know the teacher. We had a thing, a long time ago. It lasted less than a month then he went back to New York and got married.”

He was silent and for a moment I thought I’d misjudged the situation.

“If you have a problem with me being gay,” I started, “I’m into girls too.”

“Again, I’m Danish,” he interjected, “Back home there’s talk about legalising same sex partnerships.”

“Wow, that’s, I didn’t know. That’s great.”

“Swimming against the tide,” he stated, with noticeable pride. “On the other hand, your teacher prefers to think inside the box.”

“He took what he wanted then moved on,” I said, playing it cool, “He wasn’t the first and won’t be the last.”

“When was it?”

“Nearly three years ago.”

He whistled.

“What?” I asked, while I spread a thin film of mustard across a hunk of juicy meat.

“Must have been a fantastic shag if you still talk about him.”

I bit my tongue.

“Wait, you said he went back to New York, but this is London.”

“You should work for Scotland Yard.”

He chuckled and filched one of my pickled onions.

“What’s he doing here then?”

I explained about Carey’s accident and his reaction was similar to what Pierre’s had been.

“Did you talk to him?”

“He wants to make sure I eat three meals a day and don’t get into trouble.”

“Tell him to go to hell.”

“He’s still in touch with my parents. He and my dad are friends; they talk about me.”

I made a face and he laughed.

“This guy’s full of crap,” he said. “He’s not over you, not even one bit.”

“Do you really think so?”

He stuffed a mini-gherkin in his mouth and nodded.

“Let’s look at the evidence: he’s married yet he’s here and he’s jealous.”

“Who said he’s jealous?”

“Not getting into trouble is code for ‘don’t fuck random people in clubs or, in fact, do not fuck anyone but me’.”

“He has no hold over me.”

Petri played with his pack of Benson & Hedges, dragging it back and forth along the Formica table-top.

“We have been talking about him for about ten minutes and you still haven’t said his name.”

“I can say his name.”

“Okay.”

I found that it wasn’t as easy as I’d thought; that it almost felt like a betrayal.

“His name’s Oliver.”

My voice didn’t sound like my own.

 

We went back to the Guildhall: I had a class and Petri was going to try and find his Lucia.

Once on the second floor, I noticed Oliver standing by the water cooler.

“Give me your hand,” I hissed, and thankfully my new friend obeyed without hesitation.

“Let’s get a glass of water,” I suggested, “I’m parched.”

He followed the direction of my gaze and pulled me closer.

“Hi,” I said, with the brightest smile I could summon up.

Oliver glanced at Petri and down at our interlaced fingers then back up at me. He had his poker face on, but his silence was very eloquent.

“You look well,” he said, with a pale grin. “I wish I could stay, but I’m in a hurry. Later!”

The word hit me like a gunshot.

 

After my composition workshop, I’d stayed behind to practice on the piano. I didn’t have one at home and outside college hours I only played when I gave private lessons. And that wasn’t playing but only plunking.

I knew that he was in the room even though he was out of sight. It’s not that I heard his footsteps or even smelled his fragrance, but rather that something had shifted in the air, as though a magnetic field had been erected or disturbed.

I had been tinkering with Debussy but I soon transitioned into Bach, _that_ Bach, which I had played for him in the afternoon of what now seemed a lifetime ago.

I lost myself in the music, almost forgetting about his presence; almost, but not quite. He was getting closer, I was certain of that, and the hairs on my nape stood on end in anticipation of his touch. It never came.

The piece ended and I kept my fingers poised on the keyboard, looking straight ahead and seeing nothing.

“You didn’t change it,” he said, and finally came into view. Up close, I could see the dark circles round his eyes and the stubble on his face and throat. He looked tired, unkempt and achingly sexy.

“You said you were in a hurry.”

“I had a meeting with the Principal.”

“Everything okay?”

“Just touching base.”

“He must be grateful that he got you at such short notice. I hope Carey is doing better.”

“Getting there, slowly but surely,” he replied.

Our conversation was like a compendium of polite nonsense.

“He said Nolan thinks you are a great pianist.”

The lights were dim, so I hoped he hadn’t noticed that I was blushing.

“He’s Irish,” I joked, “Overly emotional.”

“You can talk,” he smiled, “You’re half Italian; you’re practically cousins.”

We laughed; some of the tension evaporated.

“I’m not sure I’m that good,” I said, “Does my music arouse an emotion which is an appropriate reaction to the real life expression of the feeling which compelled it into existence?”

He shook his head.

“I knew it was you,” he smirked, “I recognised your curls.”

“Damn, my cover is blown.”

“A quick learner, though.”

“An apt pupil,” I whispered.

 


	7. Scent of a Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the unravelling begin...
> 
> Oliver's POV then Elio's
> 
> Mind the tags for mention of homophobic language.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the lovely comments and for the kudos: you are amazing and I love you all.

 

He smelled different.

I hadn’t noticed before, probably due to the fact we’d not been close enough or that I had been overwhelmed by the tangibility of his presence after so long an absence.

In the windowless enclosure of that room, with its leathery, stuffy atmosphere, Elio’s scent was as distinctive as the notes he was playing.

In my memory, the fragrances of camomile and lavender were mixed with sweat, peach juice, semen and suntan lotion. Because it had been summer, and a scorching hot one, the dirt on our skin had been cauterised by the heat and washed away by pool or river water.

Here there was no Mafalda to wash and iron his clothes, no Annella to provide expensive toiletries, and no money to get everything done professionally.

His curls were tangled and slightly oily, his shirt and trousers were creased and there was no denying the whiff of stale smoke and pungent body odour that emanated from him.

I wasn’t exceedingly fussy, but I preferred neatness over clutter and hygiene over slovenliness. My reaction should have been – if not revulsion – at least sober detachment. Here I was, an academic of some stature with a book to my name, confronted with a skeletal, malodorous, barely post-pubescent boy: I should have taken a step back and contemplated my lucky escape from the safe distance of my well-earned maturity.

That wasn’t what I felt, not even remotely.

All I wanted was to lick the nape of his neck, where his hair was at its wildest and the collar of his shirt held the promise of salt and humid warmth. My whole body begged that I surrendered to this impulse, but I held back.

I listened to his rendition of young Bach and dreamed of taking his shirt off and tasting the dip of his spine, the peaks of his nipples and every square inch of skin in between.

It took a gargantuan effort to stand still and breathe. In and out, in and out, like a man recovering from a stroke, who had to re-learn the basics.

By the time he’d finished playing, I was drained of energy. I had run a marathon and arrived atop a desert peak; all around me was desolation.

 

“An apt pupil,” he said.

“You didn’t stay till the end,” I replied.

Anodyne, trite: was that the best I could offer?

“I had things to do.”

Things or people, I wanted to ask, but couldn’t risk it.

“We went out for lunch.”

“And you had pickled onions.”

“How do you know?”

“A lucky guess,” I smiled.

He cupped his hands above his mouth and scrunched his nose.

“My breath reeks of them, doesn’t it?”

“Kind of, yeah, it does.”

He sniffed one of his shirt cuffs.

“That’s not too bad,” he declared.

I shrugged, but I was biting my lips to keep them from grinning.

“What? Not everybody is as, what’s the word, as pristine as you.”

“Old and stuffy, that’s what you mean.”

“That’s not what I said.”

He wasn’t glaring at me, for once.

“You probably imagine that I keep mothballs everywhere, including my shoe cabinet.”

“You have a shoe cabinet.”

“Where do you keep your shoes?”

“I kick them under my bed, like you used to do.”

When you were with me, was the unspoken coda to that sentence.

He flinched and his eyes hardened.

“I guess that’s what happens when one’s married,” he said.

“Shoe cabinets?” I joked, feebly.

“Someone’s always there to make sure your shirts don’t smell of pickled onions,” he replied.

I will never be that person for you, I thought, and for a moment I wished I really had that stroke and was done with it.

“Isn’t there a launderette in Pear Tree Street?”

Yes, I really did say that. He didn’t seem surprised that I knew his area.

“Yeah, but there’s always something going on there,” he grimaced. “The choice is between the piss-heads, the smack-heads or the skin-heads. They all hate us; not you, of course. They hate the gays. They have all sort of fancy names for us.”

Cold sweat trickled down my back.

“Did they call you any of those names?”

He snorted.

“Plenty,” he said, “Aside from the usual fag and fairy, there was fudge-packer, mattress-muncher, shit-stabber and - Pierre’s favourite - sperm gurgler. There’s loads more, but you get the gist.”

I was undecided whether I should go there and beat those monsters to a pulp or pack Elio’s bags and move him to a safer neighbourhood. I was rent free since my apartment belonged to the Barbican estate, so I could easily afford to pay for his lodgings.  I was about to propose the latter option, but he went on: “I don’t mind. At least, it’s real. They are real. I know where I stand, with them.”

“They’ll hurt you for no reason.”

God, why didn’t I just shut up?

He flushed and bit his lips.

“At least they don’t know me. They may kick the shit out of me, but they won’t take advantage of me before they do it.”

At that point, I made a stupid mistake. Actually, I made two.

First, I squeezed his shoulder and felt his entire body reject my touch. I got the hint and backed off.

And then the second idiotic thing happened.

“Look,” I started, “Last time you didn’t let me explain.”

“What is there to say? You did what you did and now it’s done. What does it matter anyway? You have your wife and I have my-” he got up and started towards the door.

I remembered the blond boy whose hand he’d clasped earlier.

“Your boyfriends,” I said it for him.

He swung round so quickly he caught me by surprise. He came up to me and grabbed my left hand.

“What’s the inscription on your ring?” he asked. His hand was cold; his fingertips were dry and calloused.

“The inscription?” I was babbling like a fool.

“Every wedding ring has one. What does yours say?”

For a moment, I couldn’t think of anything. My mind had gone blank.

“The date,” I replied, at last.

“Which was?”

I told him: another mistake.

He stood there, lost in thought, for a while; when he seemed to have come to a conclusion, he smiled, like a killer might before plunging a knife into his victim.

“I should have guessed,” he said, voice of silk and jagged ice, “Papa took us to the Cinque Terre that week-end. A special treat because the weather was so warm for May, he said. He wanted to give me some happy memories to cling to for when I’d find out that it was your wedding day. Oliver may have been tying the knot, but you, _figlio mio_ , were sunbathing in Monterosso and hiking along the Sentiero Azzurro. What a trade-off!” he laughed.

“I’m sure that’s not what he thought.”

“You are sure, aren’t you? How great it must be to be you, Oliver: constantly on the right side of the argument, never a false note or a misplaced regret. It was always your shtick, being alright with everything, letting it all slide: cool as a cucumber, impermeable Oliver.”

I hurt like I’d been slapped.

“You don’t know how wrong you are.”

“The real question is: do you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. The doors didn’t bang, but the click which announced Elio’s departure seemed more definitive, like a lid sliding over a coffin.

 

“Let’s go to Subway,” I said to Pierre, as soon as he came in.

I had been listening to Ligeti while reading Look Back in Anger, alternating between excitability and depression. The gas bill had been paid, but the boiler was having a bleak day too, coughing lugubriously every time I turned the hot water tap on. I hadn’t the strength of mind to defy the fates, not after my confrontation with Oliver. I was like a taut string: vibrating, but on the verge of breaking.

Going near him had been a terrible idea; allowing him back into my life would have been an unforgivable mistake. We couldn’t be friends, not when I still wanted him. And want him I did, even though I resented myself for it. It wasn’t only his body that I desired, but that sense of belonging, of having arrived home, at last. But my home had been torn apart and like those poor souls at Pompeii, I had been asleep when disaster had struck. There must have been signs and I had not seen them.

It was time to let go and burn what was left of the ruins.

 

Pierre tossed his backpack on the sofa and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He was becoming British, I chided him, and he told me off.

“Horny bitch, are we?” he joked. “You never want to go to Subway.”

“That’s not true.”

“What’s the last time you went?”

“It’s not like a keep a diary.”

“It was still winter,” he said, “I was wearing a beret.”

“You could wear a beret tonight.”

“I refuse to wear winter clothes in April. _Fait chier, ce temps de merde_ ,” he complained, and I agreed with him. Used as I had been to the mild Italian weather, I found the constant greyness dispiriting.

He prepared two cups of coffee with a splash of milk and no sugar.

“Maybe I have a thing with Thorsten later,” he said.

“No you don’t. He’s only leading you on. I don’t get it: what’s so special about this guy?”

Pierre wasn’t the romantic type and he never stayed with anyone longer than a week.

“You haven’t seen his cock.”

“Does it have arms and legs?”

“Please,” he rolled his eyes, “Don’t pretend size doesn’t matter to you. Just one name: Swedish guy.”

“He was Finnish and his name was Jere.”

“And he had a small dick, which didn’t scratch all of your itches.”

Only one dick had done that, but it was now verboten.

“You got too lucky with your first,” he said, “Mine was a lousy _Parisien_ who cared more about his hair than having a good fuck.”

“Like you are not vain at all,” I joked.

“Not in bed,” he replied, seriously. And from what I recalled of our only time together, he was telling the truth. As much as he loved to show off his toned chest and to keep his hair gelled and sculpted to perfection, when it came to sex, he had no qualms about it being messy and dirty. He was not as unrestrained as I liked, but even though I lacked experience, I had come to realise that good sex was not the rule and great sex was very much the exception. I had started from the summit of Mount Everest and all would be downhill from there. And not in a good way.

“The prophet Howard Jones has the answer: things can only get better,” I said, and immediately regretted it, for he started singing.

“Shut up and get ready,” I shouted over his tone-deaf warbling.

“I only had pizza for lunch and that seems like a month ago. Have you eaten already?”

“I had salt beef and pickles a few hours ago.”

“Did you get paid by your old _mémé_?”

He was referring to one of my piano students, an elderly lady who lived among the decay of former riches, like a Dickensian character or an ageing film star. _Muvi Star_...

“I made a new friend,” I replied, “And no, we did not do anything. He’s not even gay.”

Pierre opened the fridge and rooted inside it, searching for something edible.

“Everyone’s gay. They just don’t know it yet. Tell me about him.”

He’d found a carton of eggs and a crust of cheddar cheese. He was a passable cook, much better than me, and he could make a decent omelette.

While he broke the eggs into a chipped soup bowl, I told him about Petri but avoided mentioning Oliver.

“Do I stink?” I asked, and went up to him as he poured oil into the frying pan.

“Not more than usual, why?”

I kicked his ankle.

“I hate going to the launderette.”

Pierre washed his clothes at Thorsten’s place; he may have been crazy about that loser’s attributes, but he hadn’t entirely lost his common sense.

Our washing machine had expired months ago and we’d been told it was too decrepit to be repaired.

“You should ask your Professor to buy you a washer-dryer,” he said, “He owes you. By the way, who said that you smelled?”

“No one,” I replied, scratching the back of my head.

“Someone must have,” he insisted, “Was it him? I bet it was him.”

I didn’t have it in me to lie, but I didn’t have to tell him _everything_.

“I met him by chance at the water-cooler while I was with this Petri guy.”

“Was he jealous?”

“No, why would he be? He’s married, I told you.”

I grated the cheese and he added it to the eggs.

“So he said hello, you said hello, and he told you that you stank, in front of someone who could have been your boyfriend: wow, okay.”

“It wasn’t”

“Wasn’t what?”

I sighed and spilled the beans, while he poured the thick mixture into the pan.

“He’s not over you.”

“That’s what Petri said.”

He flipped the omelette, like a real chef.

“Maybe he just misses cock,” he argued, “Who wouldn’t?”

Pierre could be right; for all I knew, Oliver was simply repressed and if that was the case, anyone with dick and balls could serve the purpose. The thought made me sick with anger.

“I certainly do,” I replied, “And I intend to have as many as I can before the night is over.”

He looked at the remaining eggs and smiled.

“We’ll need another omelette then,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Oliver gets drunk because, honestly, he can't take it anymore.


	8. Paradise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit happens. Oliver can't take it anymore. He just can't.
> 
> Oliver's POV then Elio's.
> 
> Mind the tags for minor violence, explicit and homophobic language.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paradise is both a film and a song (1982). Phoebe Cates starred in the film and sang the song.

Friday - I thought - Thank heavens for small mercies.

In the bathroom, staring at my face in the mirror, all I saw was Elio’s contemptuous expression while he’d asked me about my wedding ring. I glanced at it, the plain gold band which bound me to another human being, one that wasn’t Elio; that would never be Elio.

I could smell him still and it made me hard. What did that say about me, that I could be aroused while feeling so utterly miserable, lonely and lost?

I pulled my dick out of my boxers and jerked off over the sink, watching myself as I fisted that lump of flesh which could become sublime in the hands of a lover, but that in solitude was only blood, tissue and spurts of semen.

The phone rang, saving me from further self-pity.

 

Alice distracted me by talking of her sister Sarah and her new boyfriend, whom she had met at temple. He was an accountant and knew Aaron, so we ended up chatting about him too, even though I had never actually laid eyes on him.

I felt as though I was discussing the plot of a novel which I had only skimmed through, while my mind kept drifting back to my conversation with Elio: the esprit de l’escalier suggested many alternatives to my lame repartees, but it was too late; I had squandered my chances and was doomed to repeat those clever words to myself, while Elio moved on with his life.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, after I’d been silent for too long.

“Nothing, sorry,” I replied, “I’m just tired.”

“How’s Will?”

“Better: he’s at home now. He’s with a girl named Frieda. She seems nice.”

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic,” she joked, “Not your type?”

I laughed.

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

“You never do,” she said; not accusatory, but not light-hearted either.

“Why would I look at other women?”

She fell silent.

“We’ll have to speak about it, sooner or later.”

“What?” My heart was thudding in my ears.

“Italy,” she replied, “What happened during your holiday. I thought I’d guessed, but I’m starting to think I may have got a few crucial details wrong.”

“We weren’t together at the time.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything; it was my mistake as much as yours. I thought you’d had your fun and that you were done with it. But you are far from done.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

My mind was as blank as it had been earlier, when Elio has questioned me about my ring.

“You can tell me anything, you know that right?”

“Right”

She sighed.

“It doesn’t have to be now.”

“No”

“I wish I didn’t hate flying.”

“You could come by boat.”

“With my luck, it would be another Titanic.”

I chuckled; I’d always loved her dry wit and the fact she seldom took herself seriously. Her bitchy colleagues and her mother were the only people that could make her lose her composure.

“You will think about what I said.”

“Yes.”

“I love you Oliver and that’ll never change.”

“Love you, too.”

“Now go get drunk,” she said, “That’s what the locals do, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but-”

“Oh, come on, it’s not like you don’t like a drink.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

We said goodbye and as I put the receiver down, I agreed that she had a point.

 

The Hand and Shears was a traditional pub next to Smithfield Market; the paint on the frontage was bottle green and so was the dirty velvet which covered the old-fashioned wooden benches. On a Friday evening it was, like most pubs, packed to the rafters. Unlike in the bars back in New York, tips were not part of pubs’ etiquette so the service never included any additional patter; I was left alone with my whisky and my sore heart. I didn’t need to smoke, since the air was already thick with it. I was on my third drink, when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“I thought I recognised you,” the man said. It was Daniel Nolan. “You’re the tallest one in here.”

“Yeah, that’s my curse,” I replied, smiling. “Are you with someone or?”

“My friends left and I was on my way out when I spotted you.”

“Don’t let me keep you.”

“They are going pub crawling and I’m too old for that, you know what I mean?”

He didn’t look much older than me and as he took his glasses off to wipe them, his grey eyes were as guileless as a child’s.

“What are you drinking?” he asked. He ordered another glass for me and a pint of Guinness for himself.

“Will told me that you know Elio Perlman,” he said. Apparently the Irish weren’t only emotional, but straightforward too. In fact, that seemed to apply to every European I’d met. It was unsettling, but also quite refreshing.

“I stayed at his parents’ house in Italy a few summers ago.”

“His dad is a bit of a celebrity.”

“He’s a lovely man and a very gifted academic,” I said, “Extremely generous with his time and hospitality.”

“He certainly did a sterling job bringing up that son of his. Have you heard him play the piano?”

I nodded.

“He was always transcribing music while the other kids were out enjoying themselves.”

I wondered briefly whether he could guess that I was lying, or at least omitting a large chunk of the truth.

“He’s in year 1, but he could easily slot into year 2 or even 3, if he was more disciplined.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing bad, but he’s a bit of a free spirit. He’s fine when he’s doing his own thing, but when he’s work-shopping with other people, he can be a handful. He doesn’t easily accept the contribution of his peers.”

“Is he wrong?”

“I didn’t say that. But he needs to learn that a composer doesn’t work in isolation.”

“He’s a sociable boy.”

“That he definitely is,” Nolan chuckled. “There’s an edge to the kid, all the same. He has the personality of an artist and the volubility which goes with it.”

“Do you think that he’s happy?” He cast me a puzzled glance. “At Guildhall, I mean.”

“I reckon he’ll be happier once he’s done with academia.”

“I wish I were still a student.”

“Perlman doesn’t like being told what to do. He’s kicking against the pricks.”

“But you believe that he’s talented.”

He drained his pint and stifled a belch.

“Oh yeah, even an idiot could see that. He’s going to be famous, one day. And by the way, he has the looks for it too.”

I looked down into my glass, said nothing.

“He’s a wee skinny thing, but he has charisma.”

Underneath the table, I pinched my thigh. He misinterpreted my silence, or perhaps he didn’t.

“I don’t mean it that way,” he said, “Not that I have anything against it, but I don’t bat for that team. Besides, I like my birds on the mature side.”

He winked and I shook my head, laughing.

“More experienced?” I asked.

“They don’t waste time,” he replied. “Life’s too short for that. And I can see that you agree,” he added, indicating my left hand. “How long have you been married?”

“It’ll be two years in May.”

“Your life is sorted out already,” he said, “I almost envy you.”

“Please don’t. Shall I get you another pint?”

He looked at me and I had the impression that he wanted to say more but didn’t dare.

“Thanks mate, but I’m getting up at the crack of dawn so I better head home.”

“Going anywhere nice?”

“Back to Cork, to see my family,” he replied, a fond look in his eyes, “There’s nothing like the place where you grew up is there?”

“You are talking to the wrong person.”

He slapped me on the back.

“No, I don’t think so. It may be just a question of when rather than where.”

“Maybe,” I conceded, not quite willing to find out what he meant.

“Have a good week-end and see you on Monday.”

“Yes and the same to you.”

After he left, I ordered another whisky and another, and then I stopped counting.

 

 

 _“When I am with you it’s paradise_  
_No place on earth could be so nice_  
_Through the crystal waterfall_  
_I hear you call_

 _It’s right out of something from a fairy tale_  
_A terribly exciting and a scary tale_  
_It’s nothing I could ever make up_  
_Am I dreaming, will I wake up_  
_Just to find out this is cruel reality”_

 

I could have strangled him with Thorsten’s massive dick. Because I could swear, it surely must have been Pierre, telling the DJ to put bloody Phoebe Cates on.

The night had been going so well and he’d had to ruin it for me. I was crashing down after the high and not walking straight after having imbibed my body's weight in vodka, but most of all I was fucking furious. Not that the song had reminded me of anything, but all that rubbish about paradises, waterfalls and fairy tales had just ruined the atmosphere of happy debauchery I was indulging in.

I had somehow stumbled towards Trafalgar Square and boarded the right night bus and even, to my own amazement, succeeded in not throwing up or falling asleep and ending up in Mile End.

When I got off at the Old Street bus stop, it had started to rain. I was so incensed with everything that I didn’t hear him approach.

“Hey bum boy, where do you think you’re going?”

It was Gene, Spike’s friend: a mean, pimpled heroin addict with a mouth full of gold crowns.

I crossed the street, trying to find somewhere open, maybe a kebab shop where I could find shelter; everything was shut for the night and the few people around me were in a hurry to go home. I would have run if I'd had the strength, but I could only walk faster. When I turned into Pear Tree Street, he caught up with me.

“Spike says you got dosh,” he sneered, “Can’t think who’d pay to jump your bones.”

I laughed, terrified of antagonising him.

“Spike was having you on,” I said.

“Show us your lady purse, fancy knickers.”

“I don’t have anything on me,” I said, looking around to see whether anyone was coming. The rain was lashing down and I was shivering from cold, fear and exhaustion.

“You’re a bloody liar,” he shouted, and suddenly he had me in a choke-hold so tight that in a matter of seconds I was already seeing stars. I tried to scream but nothing came out apart from a  high-pitched whimper. Kicking didn’t help either, so I let it happen. Before I could close my eyes and say goodbye to the world, I heard someone’s hurried steps and a voice barking threats and insults; Gene let me go as quickly as he’d attacked me and my legs gave way.

“Elio,” Oliver’s voice whispered, and of course that damn song was making me hallucinate. The man was holding me in his arms and helping me to my feet. His cologne smelled familiar, but I ignored it.

“Are you okay, did he hurt you?”

This wasn’t a dream. I looked up at him: he was soaked to the bone and wild-eyed, the way he used to be when he’d drunk too much and slept too little.

I went from grateful to angry in a heartbeat.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I was worried about you and look, I was right to be!”

“And what, you were passing by at the right moment when that junkie decided to choke the shit out of me?”

“Let’s get out of the rain,” he suggested and I was too cold to object.

He tried to wrap his arm around my shoulders but I pushed him away.

After three unfruitful tries, I managed to fit the key into the lock. The lift was still out of order, but the light bulb had been replaced by a stronger one, so the grimy walls, the cobwebs and the assorted filth strewn all over the hallway looked even more squalid. I was ashamed and furious, and part of me wanted to hurt Oliver for being the cause of all this misery.

“Let me take a look at your neck,” he said, moving closer. I took a step back and stared him down.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I repeated.

“I don’t know, I was at the pub.”

“You got drunk and horny.”

I wanted to hit him.

“No, I just wanted to see, to make sure you were fine. I went to that launderette you mentioned and you were right, you can’t go in there. Then I thought you might just do that, so I waited. I don’t know long I was in there, but then it started to rain, so I-”

“You what?” I shouted.

“I don’t know!” he screamed back. “I have no fucking idea why I couldn’t go home, but I couldn’t just go without seeing you, making sure you were alright.”

“You are not my bloody baby sitter.”

“You almost got killed.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Next time maybe ask one of your boyfriends to take you home.”

Bastard, I thought, I’ll show you who’s boss here.

“Just because I sucked somebody’s cock, it doesn’t make him my boyfriend. I had a bunch of them tonight. I can’t still taste them on my tongue.”

He couldn’t have gone paler if I’d bled him dry.

“Stay away from me,” I said, turning my back on him. “You’ll hate me if you don’t.”

“I don’t care,” he whispered.

“Sorry?”

“I don’t give a shit about anything anymore,” he hissed, his voice full of rage and tears, “I’m so fucking tired of doing this, every single bloody day and night.”

“Doing what?”

“Thinking about you,” he spat out, “The million fucking ways you could get into trouble. Things that could happen to you, people who could hurt you, this hell-hole you live in being set on fire by some crazy shithead.”

“I can deal with it, I am dealing with-”

“Oh yeah, I just saw how you dealt with it. And don’t tell me to stay out of it, because I bloody can’t!”

“And why is that?”

“Because I love you, that’s why,” he was crying now; fat tears were mingling with the raindrops that still clung to his skin. “You can hate me, but I can’t hate you. I never will.”


	9. Imitation of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys talk, at last.  
> Well, they kinda scream too, but at least it clears the air a bit.
> 
> Elio's POV
> 
> Mind the swearing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely and thought-provoking comments. I will reply to all of you as soon as I have posted the new chapter. You are the best xoxo

 

“Sorry, but I don’t love you anymore. We are over, done, _finito_.”

These were the words I had rehearsed in my head, on those early days when I’d dreamed about meeting Oliver again. He’d confess his undying love and I’d reject him. That would have been my revenge.

Now that he was standing in front of me, I couldn’t do it.

It would have been a lie, of course, but that wasn’t what deterred me. I could have lied to his face and relished it, if it hadn’t been for his pain. That I had not factored in, whichever the scenario. I had imagined him angry, lustful, demanding and contrite, but never so stricken, with tears streaming down his face.

This was my Oliver and I was the cause of his pain. Because of my rage, I had forgotten that if I pricked him, he’d bleed. And here he was, bleeding.

Words had not done us much good, so I took him by the hand and led him upstairs. The flat was a mess, but I doubted Oliver would notice. He followed me meekly, without speaking. When I turned to look at him, he was still crying; it was as though he had no control over his emotions. He was biting his lips, but he was letting the tears flow without attempting to wipe them away.

I made him sit on the couch, while I went to fetch a couple of towels. I’d have to steal one of Pierre’s since I had no spare clean ones. When I returned, he was still in the same position; he was staring ahead of him and the slight tremor which pervaded his body was the only indication that he hadn't been turned to stone.

I placed Pierre’s towel next to Oliver and started drying off my hair with my discoloured bath-sheet.

“You’ll catch your death, if you stay like this,” I said. He stared at me, at my wet curls, for a long while, until he seemed to awake from a long sleep.

“Your voice is scratchy,” he murmured, “Is your throat okay?”

 I touched my neck and prodded the skin around my Adam’s apple: it was sore and bruised, but it was bearable.

“Okay,” I replied, “Not the first time and won’t be the last.”

Like I said: words were not doing us any good.

“What do you mean?” He’d finally grabbed the towel and was scrubbing his head and face with it. By the end of it, his hair was thoroughly dishevelled and his face pink and oddly blank.

“You have seen the area,” I replied, “At night, especially at week-ends, they all crawl out of their shitholes, like roaches.”

“You can’t stay here.”

He was growing angry again.

“It’s within walking distance of the Guildhall and it’s all I can afford. I could move farther out, but then I would have to pay for transport. This is London, not Crema.”

He grimaced.

“Why aren’t you taking your father’s money? He saved it for you, because he loves you. I wish I could say the same about my father.”

“You’re still drunk,” I said, “You’ll regret having told me once you’re sober again.”

“What? No, of course I won’t!” he exclaimed. He was still shivering and his teeth were chattering. I had never seen him cold or ill; in my memories, he’d always been a tower of strength; Oliver, the Greek statue without a single crack; Oliver, the epitome of untarnished perfection. Perhaps, I’d asked too much of him and taken too many things for granted.

“Get out of those clothes,” I said, “I’ll find you something to change into. The bathroom’s over there.”

I found an old tracksuit which Pierre never wore; it wasn’t Oliver’s size – since my friend was shorter than Oliver - but it would do. It was the same shade of red as the swimsuit I had fondled and nearly masturbated with. I smiled wryly, wondering what Oliver would have said if I’d handed him Billowy instead. I had it with me, at the back of my closet, because I’d never been able to throw it away and could not bear to be parted from it. I put on my plaid pyjama and wrapped a scarf around my neck. I didn’t want to feel vulnerable in his presence, not when he was falling apart.

When he walked back into the kitchen, he seemed his old self again.

“Tea or coffee?” I asked, and he cast me a mock-incredulous look.

I made him an espresso. The only luxury I had allowed myself was a proper Italian _caffettiera_.

“This brings me back,” he sighed.

“Why, don’t you have espressos in New York?”

“I don’t know why, but they don’t taste the same.”

“Maybe it’s the water.”

“Could be,” he said, gazing intently at the scarf around my neck.

We sat side by side on the couch, a hand’s breadth of space between us.

“I know you’ve quit, but I really need a cigarette,” I said, after we’d finished our drinks.

“Give me one too.”

I found his pack of Silk Cuts, which I had concealed behind a pile of books.

“Are these...?”

I nodded, fussing with the lighter in order to hide my embarrassment. 

“If only there was some leftover weed.”

“There’s some at my place.”

“I can’t believe Jack came to see you.”

He grinned, and the years dropped from him, as if by magic.

“I like him.”

My cousin and I looked alike: evidently, Oliver had a type.

“He’s not single, but neither are you. He doesn’t care about fidelity anyway.”

His hand hovered above my thigh then he let it rest on his own leg.

“No, that’s not what I meant, not who I want,” he murmured.

“You may change your mind. It’s been known to happen.”

He shook his head, forcefully.

“You heard what I said before.”

I smirked, but my heart was in my throat.

“You love your friends and you still consider me one of them.”

He stood up and went to look outside the window. There was nothing to see, except for more housing estates and mangy back gardens, disseminated with beer cans and discarded shopping bags.

“You’re not my friend,” he said, his voice pitched so low I barely heard him.

“Not anymore, no. Not after the way you treated me.”

I was the one feeling tearful now.

“I did ask you,” he went on whispering, “Whether you were okay with it. You said you were fine.”

Again, I wanted to kill him.

“You must be fucking kidding me,” I said, going up to him and crowding him against the window, “I was waiting for you to come back for four fucking months. Counting down the days, the hours, the bloody seconds,” I spat out. My face was inches from his, but he didn’t move a muscle. “I thought of you every single day, every night before I went to sleep, wanting you in my bed, under me, on top of me, next to me, all over me. And you got there and ignored me, hardly spoke two words to me, before announcing you were getting married and wasn’t it great fucking news?”

He said nothing, and his eyes wore a horrified expression.

“I swear on everything I hold dear that if you don’t say something this very instant, I will kick you out and you’ll be dead to me.”

The silence lasted a handful of seconds before I exploded.

“Get out, just get the hell out!”

At last, he tried to embrace me, but I pushed him away. He insisted until I was flush against his chest, my face buried in his neck.

“You were only seventeen,” he said, “Your whole life ahead of you and so much potential. I thought you deserved everything the world had to offer.”

“What about what I thought, what I wanted?”

I was doing my best not to melt into him, but he felt heavenly; paradise, for real.

He caressed my hair and poured words into my ear, words that I could not discern.

“You told me, in Rome,” he replied.

“What did I say? That night I was so wasted, I don’t even remember half of it.”

“It wasn’t what you said, but what you did. You were so open and sensual, I’d never seen anyone so alive and ready to devour life,” he chuckled, “You even asked that Dutch girl to come back to the hotel with us. If she’d said yes, you’d have slept with her.”

I tried to recall the events of the night, after we’d left the company of the writer and his retinue, but I could only see Oliver pushing me against a wall and eating me alive.

“No, you’re wrong.”

“You slept with Marzia.”

“Only at the start, before I’d-” I took a step back, “Wait, why are you implying that what you did was my fault?”

He placed his hands on my shoulders and squeezed.

“I never said that. You were free to experiment and it was only natural that you’d want to.”

I imagined that it was how flies felt when caught in the web of a spider. My mind was fuzzy and there was a fog where clear thoughts should have been. All the same, I intended to fight my corner; it was now or never, I was sure of it.

“That night I only felt like that because of you. Did you not understand that?”

He looked startled, like someone caught by the flash of a photographer.

“You made me so happy, didn’t I tell you?”

His mouth opened but produced no sounds.

“You didn’t believe me, did you? I remember now: you said that I was horny, because we had fooled around but hadn’t finished. You REALLY thought that it was all it was?”

Tears of anger and frustration were gathering at the back of my throat and at the corners of my eyes.

“Damn you, Oliver! How fucking shallow did you think I was?”

“That’s not, I did not,” he drew a deep breath.

“Yes, you fucking did!” I batted his hands away and lighted another cigarette. My hands were trembling, but I didn’t care. “You were worried - it’s all coming back to me now. You didn’t really want me to go with you because you were afraid that I’d leave you and go after the first stranger who made a pass at me.”

I stared at him and there it was, I had hit the bull’s-eye.

“You never trusted me.”

“You were so young.”

“Old enough to fuck you but not enough to love you and commit to you,” I pressed a finger to his chest, where his heart might have been, if he still had one.

“And yet you - the older and wiser man of the world,” I said, in a mocking tone, “You were the one who slept with a boy of seventeen and ditched him to get married. It took you, how long? Tell me, Oliver: how long did you wait between my bed and hers? A month, a week, a day, less than that?”

“No, no, no,” he repeated.

“What, did you screw her as soon as you got off the plane? Was she at the airport, did you take her there, when your mouth still tasted of me?”

“I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t fucking breathe without you,” he shouted.

“Well, you did get on with your life, didn’t you?”

He laughed hysterically.

“You call this a life? There’s nothing real, everything is a sham, a fake, a fucking travesty!”

“You chose it.”

“I thought it was the only way out, at the time.”

I puffed on what was left of my cigarette before throwing the stub into my empty coffee cup.

“Way out?”

“Out of the loneliness, the certainty that I could never get what I wanted.”

He was slumped on the sofa and his head was in his hands. He looked like an overgrown kid and despite everything, I only wished I could protect him.

“What did you want?”

“You, Elio,” he said, looking up at me, staring straight into my eyes, “I wanted you.”


	10. Role Reversal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver reveals something about himself which Elio had never suspected.  
> A different perspective helps him understand why Oliver did what he did.  
> We are on the road to recovery, but we are still not quite there...
> 
> Oliver's POV then Elio's

 

I felt like the victim of an earthquake, except that I was the one who’d caused it.

My world had been blown to dust and through the ruins, I gazed at Elio, hoping against hope that he would not turn away from me.

He had every right to do so, after the way I’d behaved.

“You didn’t want me, not really,” he replied, his eyes wet with tears. “I was only the little virgin boy you put to the test, to see how far you could push and if I’d bend or break. If Jack had been there, you’d have slept with him.”

I wanted to hold him, but I knew I had forfeited my right to do so. How had I survived two years without touching him? And then again, surviving is hardly the same as living.

“You know that it’s not true. You are the only one, the only one-”

“What about your wife, doesn’t she matter? She was in your life before you even met me.”

“Marzia was in yours.”

He gritted his teeth and for a moment I thought he was going to slap me.

“You don’t get to lecture me about my best friend. I told you about almost sleeping with her. You told me to ‘try again later’, remember? Was it another one of your lies?”

The discussion was getting away from me and I desperately wanted to regain some control over it. Oddly, I was also feeling more alive than I’d been since my summer in Italy. It wasn’t only because I was here with him. I wanted him to know me, fully and completely.  It didn’t matter that he might decide I wasn’t worth the trouble; at least, I would be done with this half-life, which was hardly better than death.

“You were the first man I had and you are still the only one.”

“More lies! You knew what you were doing, that night.”

He strode out of the room and reappeared with a bottle of vodka.

“Please don’t,” I started.

“You don’t get to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do.”

I grabbed the bottle from his hands and he fought me viciously, but I did not relent. He could hurt me all he liked, I deserved it. He pushed me down onto the sofa and climbed on top of me, punching my chest and shoulders. The bottle tumbled on to the floor and rolled around, but didn’t break.

When he finally gave up, exhausted and panting, I brushed his sweaty curls from his face.

“You want the truth? Here it is: before you, I’d been to a couple of places in Christopher Street. Guys used their hands and mouths on me, but I didn’t, not ever. I could not, and then I realised it wasn’t for me.”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t like men.”

“I didn’t enjoy casual sex.”

He snorted.

“What about Chiara?”

“I told you at the time that nothing had happened between us.”

“You were lying to make me feel better.”

“I never lied to you.”

He glared at me.

“I may be guilty of some omissions, but I always told you the truth.”

He was sitting on my thighs and his weight and warmth were doing sinful things to me.

“No, it’s impossible,” he said, “You must have, must have,” his voice trailed into a murmur. “It was so good, you were so- And I always compared and never found, never.”

I felt a glimmer of hope and a stab of lust. I wanted him so badly, but I had to bide my time.

“And the second night you had me and it was amazing,” I said, holding his gaze so that he would see that I meant it. “I was your first and you were perfect.”

Immediately, he slid off me and on to the couch, moving as far as the two-seater sofa allowed.

“I dreamt of that,” he said, looking away from me, “A few nights ago.”

“Tell me.”

He brought his hand to his mouth and started chewing on the tip of his index finger. My dick found it mesmerising.

“I was sticking my tongue up your ass and licking and sucking,” he whispered, as the finger disappeared inside his mouth.

“Elio, please,” I was already begging.

“And then I woke up and I was alone and you still had a ring on your finger.”

His lips were wet and bright red and I was dying for a taste of them.

“I always hoped you’d be happy,” I said, like the idiot I was.

He laughed.

“Are you happy that I sucked some stranger’s cock in a club?”

I’d rather you killed me, I thought. I stood up and went back to staring out the window.

“I didn’t,” he said, “I was making out with this guy, I can’t even remember his face and Pierre did something stupid, which he will pay for, soon, so I left and got on a bus at Trafalgar Square. You know the rest.”

“What did he do?”

“Phoebe Cates,” he replied.

“Paradise,” I chuckled, “I can imagine your face.”

“Not funny.”

“Maybe a little”

I returned to the sofa and sat close to him. He didn’t move away.

“It was you that I wanted, Elio. Not your cousin, not Chiara, not one of your friends: you. I may have fucked it all up, but things haven’t changed. I don’t think they ever will.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, angrily. He was looking down at his bare feet, but I could see the tension in his shoulders.

“I won’t stop wanting you, loving you. I just believed you would.”

“But why didn’t you wait?” he said, his lovely face scrunched in pain. “You could have come back to us at Christmas and talked to me. If you’d only told me... you didn’t even let me touch you.”

“I knew that if I did, I wouldn’t have been able to stop.”

“No one asked you to.”

“You seemed so, what’s the word, serene; almost detached.”

“What did you expect me to do? You behaved as though we were strangers, like you didn’t have a fucking heart but a block of ice instead.”

“I’m such an idiot.”

He smiled and that for the first time it reached his eyes.

“At last, we are getting somewhere,” he said.

“What if I did what I should have done back then,” I said, slowly, afraid of spooking him, “We lie down and you let me hold you. Nothing more, I promise.”

“And then what? Morning comes and you leave me, again. I don’t want to be your bit on the side.”

I took his hand in mine, and he let me.

“You won’t be. I will speak with Alice,” I replied. “But I’m sure she already suspects something.”

“Did you tell her about me?”

“No, but she’s not stupid. We haven’t, you know, in months.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“I want to.”

He removed his hand from my grasp: he didn’t want to touch me while I spoke, which was understandable.  I explained that Alice and I had always been friends rather than lovers; that her parents were as unfeeling and authoritarian as mine; that we’d thought a solid partnership would be as good as a passionate one.

His eyes widened in surprise.

“But she must have had doubts,” he argued, “You are a very sensual man.”

I felt a rush of blood to my face.

“Things were different, with you.”

How could I convey to him something which wasn’t fully clear to me yet?

“But you do like women,” he said, eyes fixed on me to gauge my reactions.

I let him look his fill and draw his own conclusions.

I trusted his intelligence. I trusted him.

After a while, with a deliberate gesture, he took my hand and placed it between his. There was a look of defiance in his eyes, matched by the stubborn set of his jaw and the firm line of his lips.

An enormous weight had been lifted off my heart, and it was so sudden my head spun and my vision filled with swimming black dots.

“Come on,” he said, “Let’s go to bed.”

 

 

It had come as a surprise, but when I looked back at our summer together, I realised it shouldn’t have been. I had been an idiot too, but I blamed it on my naivety and youth.

Like the pieces of a puzzle slowly slotting into place, I recalled my father remarking on Oliver’s shyness; Oliver not speaking up, waiting for me to say the words, then waiting again after our first kiss; Oliver picking up my empty glass which had fallen from my table and onto the grass and insisting that he’d wanted to. Why had these words not struck me as odd at the time? Among the many _formules de politesse_ he could have chosen, that was unusual and revelatory.

And before we’d become lovers, the very first contact we’d engaged in had happened when he’d pretended to give me a shoulder massage. He’d done the same to my foot, after my nosebleed; even then, he’d shown me what he’d never articulated verbally. His foot resting underneath mine at breakfast, his fear that I would not go to his bedroom on that first night, and on the second night, his conviction that I would not return to him. I’d had to go and look for him and had found him sitting on his favourite spot, and when I’d questioned him, he’d told me he thought I’d gone to bed. I had taken these initial demurrals as proof that he was troubled by our age gap and by the forbidden nature of our relationship. I had not understood that there was an additional layer to his behaviour, one that his delicate friendship with Anchise should have given me an inkling of.

And yet he must have perceived something in me that wasn’t immediately obvious, since it would have made more sense to seek someone older and more experienced.

No, I was being stupid again: he’d wanted me because I was myself and he was himself. “ _Parce que c'était lui_ ; _parce que c'était moi_.”

 

We’d prepared for bed and he’d been pleasantly surprised to find out that I had a double bed.

“That’s the reason I chose this flat,” I joked.

“Not for the view and the neighbours then?”

“Them too,” I replied.

I’d always appreciated our easy camaraderie, how he could finish my sentences and laugh at me when I was being too melodramatic. During our short interlude as lovers, we’d been friends and brothers too, which is why his volte-face had cut so deep.

“Take it off,” I said, indicating the track-suit, “I don’t want to hold Pierre’s clothes in my arms.”

He flushed.

“We won’t do anything, I promise.”

“That’s not why,” he stuttered. God, he was adorable. “It’s just that I haven’t been this happy since,” he stopped when my hand cupped his cheek, “Since Rome.”

“You weren’t truly happy back then.”

He leaned into my touch.

“I may have been worried and sad, but I was happy too,” he murmured. “Those summer days were the happiest of my life.”

I wanted to kiss him, but I had made a promise and he’d done the same, so I traced his lips with my thumb until he closed his eyes and moaned.

“I have missed you so much,” I said, and he nodded. 

“You have no idea,” he replied, softly.

“Let me see you.”

He unzipped the top revealing his bare chest, which was paler and hairier than I remembered. I couldn’t take my eyes off it: the muscles were still well-defined but he had lost weight. I was already hard and had been aroused ever since he’d turned up to play my saviour. I had screamed at him, but my dick had taken no notice.

When I finally managed to gaze at his face, he was grinning.

“Don’t look so smug,” I said, stifling a smile.

“I’m just relieved that you still like the merchandise.”

I flicked a nipple and it stood to attention.

“The merchandise still likes me.”

He laughed and it was as though summer had returned, hot and luxuriant and carefree.


	11. Temptation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys talk some more and try to negotiate their way around celibacy. Not very successfully. At all.
> 
> Oh, and Oliver meets Pierre.
> 
> Oliver's POV

 

“That was a strange coincidence, you being outside my building tonight of all nights,” he said, squeezing my bicep. He was holding me in his arms and I was trying my best to focus on his words while kissing the freckles on his neck. He had kept his pyjama on but I was planning on convincing him to unbutton the jacket. It was as if I had travelled back in time, to when I was younger than Elio had been when we’d met. Maybe it was the aftermath of the night’s emotional rollercoaster or the lingering effects of the alcohol, but I felt reckless.

“Not really,” I said, “I’d been drinking with Nolan in a pub close to the Barbican.”

“Oh,” he replied, “Pierre has a thing for him.” He was biting the inside of his cheek, and I remembered what that meant.

“Tell him that he’s wasting his time,” I said, trailing kisses along his jaw, “Nolan’s into older women. He told me that tonight.”

His lips curved into a wide smile.

“Why would he do that?”

“We were talking about you and he was sounding really enthusiastic.”

“And you believed he lusted after me. Not every professor is like you.”

“What kind of professor am I then?” I raised my head to look him in the face.

“Willing to be seduced,” he replied, licking his lips. Tease.

“That’s your considered opinion after having listened to, what, five minutes of my lecture?”

“Yeah, and that you’d look sexy wearing glasses.”

“What else?”

He shook his head.

“If you don’t tell me, I’ll make you.”

I tickled his belly and he giggled.

“Okay, stop,” he gasped, “I daydreamed I was sitting in your lap while you were marking papers.”

“I’m definitely that sort of professor,” I said, nibbling the soft skin of his neck.

He threaded his fingers through my hair and ruffled it.

“If it hadn’t been for Carey’s accident, you wouldn’t be here. How long have you known him?”

I’d said that I wouldn’t lie and I intended to keep my word.

“We met at Columbia back in 1983. We used to jog together.”

“I guess he knows Alice and doesn’t know about me.”

“He does now,” I said, and recounted the recent conversation I’d had with my friend. By the end of it, Elio seemed shocked.

“You advised him to take this post because you knew I was coming to study here. So what you are saying is that he’d been spying on me on your behalf.”

“No, no, I never meant to tell him about you. I was sure you’d stand out because of your talent.”

“You had no intention of doing anything; you just waited for something to happen. And yet you must have known how upset I was.”

“Vimini might have mentioned it,” I admitted.

“Not my dad?”

“We never spoke about you. He wouldn’t betray your confidence.”

He frowned, seemingly on the verge of tears again.

“Didn’t he?”

I caressed his face, but he did not relent.

“Unless you consider his friendship with me a betrayal,” I said.

He didn’t reply, but pursued the other strand of the argument.

“What did Vimini say?”

“Not much, I think she didn’t want to upset me. But they were all worried about you being here with no money.”

He laughed, again without mirth.

“Is that all they cared about, that I wouldn’t have clean clothes and sufficient vitamins?”

“You know that’s not the case.”

“But you wouldn’t have come for me if I had taken my dad’s money and was living in luxury.”

He was pulling away from me and it hurt, since I was already getting used to having him near.

“This isn’t easy, for me,” I said, as I tried to keep him close. He resisted me at first then sighed and wrapped his arm around my shoulder.

“I would have found a way, sooner or later,” I went on, “Maybe it would have been too late, I know. I did say I was an idiot.”

“You _are_ an idiot,” he chuckled, “But it wouldn’t have been late, not for a long while.”

I kissed his throat - over the bruise that was forming across it - then started to unbutton his top.

“What are you doing,” he asked, but didn’t stop me.

“I have to look at you.”

“Not much to look at,” he said, twitching a little.

“Now who’s the idiot?”

I made quick work of his buttons, afraid that he would change his mind. When I was done, I stared at what I’d just uncovered: his ribs were more prominent and his skin so white it was almost translucent; he was little more than skin and bones and while it made me sad, it didn’t diminish my hunger for him. Without giving it a second thought, I stroked the length of his chest, slowly, with reverence, lingering on his nipples, which peaked as soon as I brushed them with my thumb.

He arched his back and moaned, and ‘to hell with waiting’ I thought, and ducked down to lick the tight rosy flesh. In an instant, he’d grabbed two fistfuls of my hair and pulled my head towards his; his lips collided with mine, and then his tongue was teasing and forcing its way into my mouth; I lost all measure of control and let him bite and suck and lap all he wanted. It was like coming back to life after having been dead for years that seemed like centuries.

When we parted, he didn’t let go of my hair; his grasp was boderline painful, but my cock loved it: fully erect, it had fallen out of the slit in my boxers and was slapping against Elio’s stomach. His was hard too, and trapped sideways inside his plaid pants.

“I need to be inside you,” he groaned, his wet lips only a breath away, “Up to my balls in your ass; want to mount you and fucking ruin you.”

My dick twitched and I felt the tell-tale ache in my testicles. I wanted to cover his body with mine, but I knew that it wasn’t allowed. He tried to keep still, but he too was seeking friction; it drove me insane that I couldn’t take his dick in my mouth. It had been his favourite thing and I loved being on my knees for him.

It was my turn to be candid, and to ratchet up the sexual tension.

“I really want to take your cock down my throat,” I whispered.

He shoved his tongue where his penis should have been and tugged viciously at my hair. My groin was on fire and as he sucked on my lips, I suddenly came in violent spurts all over his torso.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he sobbed, and smeared his palm with my semen before taking care of his own needs. His orgasm was as quick as mine, and I stared at his face as it contorted with pleasure, wanting nothing more than to be naked and at his mercy.

When we’d both calmed down - and after we’d cleaned up and returned to bed -we shared a cigarette and talked some more.

“We need to fix this soon,” he said, caressing my neck, “We can’t be this close and not want to do what we just did.”

“It had been a long time, for me,” I replied, “But yes, soon.”

“How soon?” he insisted. Patience was never one of Elio’s virtues.

“I will speak to her tomorrow, but I want to tell her properly, in person.”

The cigarette nearly fell from his mouth.

“What, when are you going?” he gasped.

“The long week-end,” I replied, “I had tickets to go home at the end of the month, but I can alter the date.”

He knew only too well why I’d been planning that trip.

“Your wedding anniversary,” he murmured, and his eyes hardened. “You will change your mind, when you are back to work on Monday. A married man and a student: why should you waste your time on me?”

I took his hand and guided it to my chest.

“You know why,” I said. He clutched at my hairs, grazing a nipple as he did so. I let him see what that simple touch was doing to me.

“Tell me again.”  He was daring me to speak.

“Because I am in love with you,” I was hot and cold all over, but I continued, “And I need you.”

He nodded and sucked on his cigarette, in silence. His hand had migrated back to my neck and I covered it with mine, lacing our fingers together.

“I won’t come and live with you,” he said, handing me the stub to dispose of, “I want to stay here.”

“I could help you find another accommodation.”

“I like it here.”

“You’re just being stubborn.”

“It’s the first thing I have done on my own,” he said, “You must remember what it feels like.”

“Yeah, it was gratifying but also quite lonely.”

The idea of Elio not wanting to share my bed made queasy. Maybe I was only very tired and emotionally drained, I thought.

He wrapped his arms around me and held me tight.

“I only meant until you leave your wife,” he whispered in my ear, “Then you can come and stay with me,” he smirked.

“At least you’d have someone here to keep you safe.”

“Pierre is almost as big as you,” he teased, “I’m referring to his muscles, obviously.”

“Sure,” I said, tensing up again. Now that the floodgate had opened, it was harder to keep my reactions in check.

“Look, we did it once and it was nothing special. We just had to get it over with.”

“Okay.”

He dropped kisses over my face and throat, all the while caressing my shoulders and back.

“Nothing and no one has ever compared,” he said, nuzzling my cheek, “In a way, I think that I was waiting for you to return and angry with myself because reality was screaming that you wouldn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, and my eyes were wet again.

He shushed me and his touch soothed me until I was on the brink of sleep. The last thing I knew was that he wrapped himself around me - his chest pressed to my back - and whispered his name, or maybe it was mine, into my hair.

 

I woke up to the grey light of dawn. The room smelled of stale smoke and wet wood; of filthy carpets and dirty socks. I looked at Elio’s placid sleeping face and thought that heaven could take the oddest of configurations.

Since I’d been awakened by the call of nature, I put on the tracksuit pants and padded to the bathroom. When I was done and going back to Elio, the door to the other bedroom opened and a muscled boy wearing nothing but a pair of tight white underpants leered at me.

“He wasn’t lying,” he said, with a strong French accent, “Look at those feet.”

“You must be Pierre,” I smiled, holding out my hand. He shook it firmly and lingered a little more than necessary.

“Oliver, at last,” he sighed, “My _pantalon de jogging_ looks better on you.”

“Thanks for letting me borrow it.”

“You can borrow anything of mine, anytime.”

I laughed, because I didn’t know what to say in reply to his shameless flirting.

“Don’t worry, I’m only here to pack a few things,” he said, turning serious, “I’m spending the rest of the week-end at my boyfriend’s.”

“I hope it’s not on my account.”

He ogled me again and tilted his head to the side.

“ _Pas du tout_ ,” he replied, “I’d have stayed, if I’d known.”

“Oliver?”  Elio’s voice called out.

“I should go,” I said, “Nice meeting you.”

He blew me a kiss and went back into his room.

“I thought you’d gone,” Elio complained, as he pulled me down into his arms. He smelled of sleep and sweat and I was half-hard already. I licked the hollow of his throat and he sighed contentedly.

“I just met Pierre.”

He went still, but his embrace tightened.

“Did he flirt with you?”

“Yeah, but I bet he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it.”

“You’re his type.”

“American and tall?”

“Gym body and huge dick.”

“I’m flattered, but he’s not my type.”

Elio cupped my ass and squeezed.

“What’s your type?”

I looked into his eyes.

“Lean and mean,” I replied, “Angel and devil.”

He chewed on his lips, breathing hard through his nose. His fingers were brushing along the cleft of my buttocks and I felt myself open up, craving his invasion.

“If we don’t get out of bed now,” he husked. “I’ll rip this stupid tracksuit off you and eat you alive.”


	12. Homeopathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver spend the day together, getting to know each other all over again.
> 
>  
> 
> Elio's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all your lovely comments. I will answer every single one of them!!!!

 

I woke up and he wasn’t there. For a moment, I feared that I’d dreamt all that had happened the previous evening: Oliver rescuing me, telling me that he loved me, spending the night in my bed.

I could still smell him in the air: that mixture of pricey cologne and wholesome soap which brought back memories of sunny afternoons in my bedroom, of sheets laundered by Mafalda and of the lavender fragrance wafting through the open windows.

Oliver’s body, which I had vainly tried to forget: his strong arms, rounded ass and long legs; the mole near his armpit, the birthmark on his shoulder, the azure of his eyes; I could have him again, all of him, but this time I’d do things differently.

I wasn’t the same boy he’d met; maybe I was never that boy. Perhaps Marzia had been right, when she’d said that those who ready too many books like to hide who they truly are. I hadn’t hidden only from Oliver, but from myself too.

My dreams had told me what I did not say out loud: that I was obsessive, possessive and that I could be cruel, given half a chance. I had been cruel to him, in my thoughts: wishing him dead, hurt or - worse – responsible of causing me some life-threatening injury.

I had ascribed those deranged fantasies to the extremes of frustrated desire, but the truth wasn’t that simple. What I’d also refused to see was that Oliver didn’t mind; that he’d actually relished those extremes; that he’d been disappointed by my civility and meekness; more than that, he’d felt let down, as though I’d lured him in with false promises only to treat him like a summer fling.

The peach incident should have illuminated me, but I’d chosen to believe that it was only one of our many erotic experiments. When he’d eaten the semen-sodden fruit, he’d told me: this is what I will do for you and only for you. But I had decided that he knew what he’d been doing; that he had been an expert in sexual manipulation and was putting me to the test, teaching me what he knew.

The last thing I'd have considered was that Oliver knew even less than I did, because he’d never let go and been himself, not even in his dreams.

He wasn’t only a reader, but a writer; he’d invented a version of himself he could sell to the world and to his friends and family. I had been the privileged recipient of his truth, but I had been too overcome by the discovery of my own sensuality to pay it due mind. I had seen him as a fully-formed adult, but in many ways Oliver was still a boy. Sure, he was a gifted academic and he could navigate most social situations with ease, but in matters of the heart, he was barely past the ABC of body talk.

I didn’t realise all of it that morning, but it had started to dawn on me that I could and would be the first to explore that side of Oliver, and I found it exhilarating and – to be frank – very arousing. To put it plainly, it made me horny as hell.

“If we don’t get out of bed now,” I warned him. “I’ll rip this stupid tracksuit off you and eat you alive.”

The look in his eyes made me even harder, if that were possible. He wanted it, not only the sexual act, but my dominance, the testing of his boundaries. He trusted me with his truth and it was the blind faith I read in his gaze which stopped me.

I kissed him hard on the lips and told him that he was beautiful and that I worshipped him, but how different that sounded from the first time I’d said that to him.

“You said I was poison,” he replied; he smiled, but I could see that I’d hurt him.

“You are, but I have been inoculated with it and survived,” I joked, brushing my fingers through his messy hair, “You’ve become a homeopathic remedy.”

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

“Or angrier and more cynical,” I argued.

He kissed my cheek, closing his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

I heard the front door being shut.

“The coast is clear,” I smiled. “We should get breakfast, except we only have eggs and vodka in the fridge.”

He nudged my nose with his.

“The vodka’s still under the couch,” he said. “I can buy you breakfast, if you can bear to spend some more time with me.”

I pretended to ponder his words.

“I’ll have to check my diary.”

“Tough boys who live in rough neighbourhood don’t have diaries.”

“I am a bum boy, remember?”

I really shouldn’t have said that.

“He could have had a knife or worse,” he said.

There was no denying that he was right, but I didn’t want to give in so easily.

“Gene’s a bully, but there are nice people too around here.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

I hit him with my pillow.

“That’s exactly what you are doing.”

He retaliated, so I jumped off the bed and run to the bathroom. He followed me there and while I pissed, he brushed his teeth with Pierre’s spare toothbrush.

“I’ll replace this,” he said, after he was done rinsing.

“Never mind,” I shrugged, “He usually steals them.”

“What, from the shops you mean?”

“From the people he sleeps with; if they are not good fucks, or if they are mean.”

I draped my arms around him and gazed at our joint reflection in the mirror above the sink: we looked debauched, but well-matched.

“Would you have stolen my spare toothbrush after our first night together?” he asked.

“Maybe,” I replied, smirking.

I was only kidding, but his face went blank and I could have slapped myself.

“You should have taken mine,” I said, pressing my palms to his chest, “I was awful to you that morning. Mean doesn’t begin to describe it.”

“You were scared,” he sighed.

“That’s no excuse.”

“Trust me: I understand what it is like to act like an idiot out of fear.”

 He turned round and held my face in his hands.

“I wish I’d done things differently, but I can’t change the past and neither can you. Let’s just try and do better in the future okay?”

I nodded and squeezed his ass.

He laughed, “I was being serious.”

“And I was listening,” I winked, “That was me, doing better.”

“You have _a thing_ for my ass.”

“It’s a work of art and I am very artistic.”

“What happened to ‘look but don’t touch’”?

“Modern art is all about audience participation.”

“Will was right,” he chuckled, “You are a bit of a know-it-all.”

His proud expression made me stupidly happy.

“Surely you knew that already.”

“I was glad to find out that it’s still the case.”

“You don’t mind that I’m an arrogant brat?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.

He threaded his fingers through my curls.

“I fucking adore it,” he growled. The low vibration in his voice had a direct line to my dick, which wanted very much to play a part in the conversation.

“Remember what I said before, in the bedroom?” I rubbed my crotch against his thigh.

“I’m going to get dressed,” he said, but didn’t move. I knew what he wanted to do, and that made me wet.

“Go now,” I told him, as firmly as I could.

“Yes,” he replied, and when he left there was a contented smile on his lips.

 

The drama of the previous night had prevented me from noticing what Oliver had been wearing: it was the green shirt he’d worn in Rome the day he’d left for the States.

“You still have it,” I said, fingering the soft fabric.

Oliver had taken me to a cosy cafe on Goswell Road. It was quiet on Saturdays, so we didn’t have to share our table like we would have had to during the week. I had taken a backpack full of dirty laundry with me, since he’d insisted I do the washing at his place.

“No, that’s not the same,” he replied, wincing slightly as he drank his steaming black coffee.

“Looks the same to me,” I insisted, tucking into my English breakfast with gusto. I’d hated it at first, used as I was to my continental fare of bread and Nutella, but I’d been converted to it by necessity; it was cheap and very filling.

“I just bought an identical one.”

“What happened to the other?”

He bit into his blueberry muffin.

“It’s inside a suitcase, in New York.”

Oliver had his own Billowy.

I stroked his knee, underneath the table.

“You could have taken something of mine,” I said.

“I didn’t have any right to ask you.”

“Do you still have the book?”

“In the suitcase, too,” he replied, shifting so that his thigh was aligned with mine.

“What would you have taken?”

“A photo of you,” he didn’t hesitate.

“You were starting to forget what I looked like.”

He shook his head, grimacing.

“I was starting to believe that I had made you up.”

“Maybe we spent too long trying to avoid reality. I remember I didn’t even want to tell _maman_ how long we were going to be in Rome, as though it was a secret which only you and I could share.”

He stole a forkful of hash browns from my plate.

“Hey, get your own potatoes,” I mock-scolded him.

“You’re right,” he smiled, “You need to put some weight on, while I, let’s just say that I don’t.”

“You are thinner than before,” I said, assessing the girth of his thigh with my hand, “Do you still jog every day?”

“I go to the gym,” he replied, “There’s one inside the Barbican estate.”

“I bet you must be really popular.”

“Why would that be?” he grinned. “Maybe because of my big feet?”

“Drink your coffee,” I said, pretending to sulk.

He laughed, and his eyes were shining with true happiness.

 

“Wow, last time I hadn’t seen, I hadn’t really looked,” I exclaimed, admiring Oliver’s luminous living room. The tall windows overlooked a concrete terrace adorned with potted plants. The walls were painted pale yellow and the wrap-around sofa was a warm terracotta colour.

“You were too angry with me to appreciate the furnishings,” he joked.

“What did Jack do when he was here?”

I stood in front of the bookshelf, glancing at the volumes and wondering which were Oliver’s. He came up to me and hugged me from behind.

“He sniffed my whisky and gave me weed,” he replied, kissing below my ear.

“You must have thought he was crazy.”

“I don’t mind crazy, as long as crazy doesn’t try to strangle you.”

He trailed his fingers along the bruise on my neck, a touch that was feather-soft in sharp contrast with the firm clasp of his arm around my chest.

“Will you show me your bedroom?” I asked.

“Later,” he replied, but before I could feel the sting of that much-loathed word, he added, “First, I’d like you to have a bath.”

“Do I smell so vile?”

“At least you didn’t eat any onions, this time.”

I swung round inside his embrace.

“Do you find it unpleasant?”

When I said _it_ , I meant _me_.

He buried his nose in my hair and inhaled deeply.

“Not enough onions in the world for that,” he whispered, “It’s just a ruse to be naked with you.”

“You’ll be in the bath with me?”

“Who else is going to scrub your back?”

We’d never done that before: in Rome, we’d showered together, but we’d never taken our time, because time was what we’d lacked.

“Will you wash my hair too?”

“With my shampoo, so you’ll smell like me.”

I still remembered that he’d used Roger & Gallet and asked him why he’d changed it.

“Can you tell?” he marvelled, looking as pleased as a little child. “I’d bought it in Sicily, before coming to stay with you. The fragrance reminded me too much of that summer.”

“Will you-”

He didn’t let me finish. “Yes, I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oliver washes Elio's hair... and the rest of him too... like that's not going to cause any problem...


	13. Serutan Yob

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things seldom go as planned with these two...
> 
> And yes, this is already cheating, no matter what Oliver might be telling himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A parody of Nature's Boy, named "Serutan Yob", was recorded by The Unnatural Seven in1948. The record first reached the Billboard magazine charts on 1 October 1948 and lasted 4 weeks on the chart, peaking at No. 24.
> 
> Tag: recreational drug use.

 

“I should have known the moment I found you with that peach,” I said, while we sat on the terrace, smoking some of Jack’s weed.

When the time had come to undress, we’d both been oddly tense.

The previous night our nerves had been assuaged by fear, rage and alcohol, but in the cold light of day we were still two ex-lovers coming together after a long separation. I’d tossed the first load of clothes into the washer-dryer and he’d suggested we sampled his cousin’s hash. The weather was milder than usual, so we’d decided to go outside. The terrace was secluded, embedded like a puzzle piece in between the concrete and glass bay windows of my kitchen and bedroom, which jutted out like prows of ships. Nobody could see us and we could hear nothing but the distant splash of the fountains in the Barbican Lake.

“Known what?”

“That you were dangerous.”

He giggled and coughed at the same time.

“Persicum mālum,” he rasped, and passed me the joint.

“Persian apple, but mālum also means evil, sin.”

“In French, it’s almost the same word: _pêche_ for peach and _péché_ for sin. You and dad should have discussed that instead of the etymology of the apricot.”

“Little did I suspect what you were going to do. I can never read Eliot without thinking of you.”

“Because of his name?” he giggled again. I’d never seen him high before and he was even cuter than when he was drunk.

“No, you goose, not because of his _name_ ,” I said, nudging his side with my elbow, “It’s that line in The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock: _Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?_ ”

“Well, you certainly dared.”

“It wasn’t some crazy challenge: I wanted to.”

He let his head fall on my shoulder.

“You wanted to,” he repeated, softly.

We stayed like that for a while, the reefer passing between us like a shared secret; he broke the silence with a squeal that had me in stitches.

“What was that?” I gasped.

“I just remembered something,” he replied, jumping up and starting to shimmy, the way he’d used to at Le Danzing.

“How can you dance with no music?”

“I got rhythm, baby, I don’t need no music,” he said in a terrible Southern accent, and, “There’s this song called Serutan Yob. Dad used to play it to me when I was a kid. _The boy I mean was oh-so peachy-keen, A real gone guy from Goneville_ ,” he sang.

“Wait, I know that song.”

“It’s Nature’s Boy, spelled backwards: Serutan Yob.”

He pirouetted twice then lost his balance and fell onto my lap.

“Just like a ripe peach,” I joked, placing the joint between his lips.

“Am I peachy-keen?” he asked, ruffling my hair.

“You are all kinds of keen,” I replied. “That’s one of the best things about you.”

His hand travelled down until it was slipping underneath my shirt and tracing the contour of my collarbone.

“This is one of the best things about you,” he said, suddenly serious.

“What?” I couldn’t draw a deep breath.

“Your skin, so soft, like velvet,” he whispered, as he bent down to kiss the base of my throat. I barely found the presence of mind to get rid of the cigarette then my hands were all over him and it was like being caught inside a towering thunderstorm. When we resurfaced, my shirt was undone and his top was pushed up to his armpits; we were short of breath and red-faced.

“I’m ready for that bath,” he croaked, combing a hand through his hair, making it even more of a rat’s nest.

“Give me a moment,” I said, willing my erection away.

“Have to thank Jack,” he chuckled.

“I’ll buy him a present.”

“Good luck with that,” he said, “It’s always been an inside joke in our family: no one ever knows what to get him for his birthday.”

“Doesn’t he read? He did mention Jane Austen when he was here.”

Elio’s astonished expression made my heart sing. I was the real gone guy, gone and done for.

“What did he- why?”

“This building is called Willoughby; he informed me that I wasn’t like him.”

His eyebrows shot up.

“I know nothing, Oliver,” he said, with a sigh.

“That makes two of us.”

 

Elio had changed since the last time I had seen him naked: he was slightly taller and bonier; his shoulders were broader and his legs hairier. I contemplated him as he stood - hunched, defenceless -  inside the bathtub, pouring scented oil into the water. He was blissfully high and unaware that I was staring at him. At least, that’s what I thought.

Those angular features, the vividness of his eyes and the gracefulness of his movements, merged with the memories of his younger self until I could hardly tell them apart. What had this body experienced, I wondered; what had it craved and instigated; how many other bodies it had mingled with, brought ecstasy to and received pleasure from, I would never know. I could ask him and he might tell me but that would only scratch the surface; there was no way of knowing whether he wouldn’t seek those thrills again.

Before we’d slept together, one night I had waited for him to return from his assignation with Marzia, certain that he’d slept with her. We’d kissed the day before for the first time and one day later he was already looking for kicks elsewhere. I didn’t blame him for that; I’d even encouraged his promiscuity, to a certain extent. Like poking an open wound, I had pushed him towards the very thing which I knew would give me pain. How were things going to be different now, in London of all places?

“Why aren’t you naked yet?” he complained, as he lay back amid the bubbles.

“Maybe I should give you some space,” I said, “Rest all you like, while I-”

“What’s wrong? Is it because I’m too skinny? I told you I wasn’t much to look at.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

He bit his lips.

“Bullshit,” he shook his head, “I saw the way you were looking at me.”

“Fine,” I said, and removed the rest of my clothes to show him that I was far from disgusted by him. That got his attention, and for a few seconds he did nothing but ogle my dick. Said organ wasn’t at all displeased and hardened considerably under his gaze.

“Will you get in please,” he said, and it wasn’t really a question.

I did as told and sat behind him so that he’d fit between my legs. I tried to ignore the delicious roundness of his ass pressing against my groin.

“Tell me,” he said, as soon as I had my arms around him, “And it better be the truth.”

“There is so much you still have to look forward to,” I started and was startled when he abruptly moved away, to the opposite side of the tub.

“I knew you’d change your mind,” he sneered, pushing his closed fist to his throat. “How many men have you brought here? Maybe some fuckboy you picked up at the gym, uh? Is that what you do: suggest the gym showers are too filthy and invite them to your place? It’s just around the corner, buddy,” he spat.

“I haven’t slept with men since you,” I said, feeling adrift and brittle.

“What about fucking then?”

“I told you I don’t do casual sex.”

I was feeling exposed, flayed, back to where I’d started: time to spill the beans.

“You are even more beautiful than before,” I said, “I mean, just look at you! And I’m asking for so much, I need too much-”

My palms were sweating as they clutched the rim of the tub.

Underwater, Elio was reaching for my foot and when he found it, he brought it to his mouth and kissed it; he then pressed his lips to my ankle and to each of the toes.

“Better now?” he asked, with a tight smile.

I nodded.

“Was it too fast?”

“Maybe, I don’t know,” I replied, “It was only yesterday, but it’s been years and sometimes it seems like you’ve always been here.”

He stroked my legs, drawing soothing circles on them with his open palms.

“I think about you too, Oliver,” he said, calmly, “All the damn time, even when I’m not aware of it. I may have been going down on some guy-”

“You don’t have to-”

“No, I do, I really do,” he insisted, “So, I’m sucking this guy or he’s blowing me, and some part of me goes, like: what would Oliver do, this isn’t how he tasted or how he grabbed my hair when he shot his load; Oliver would have moaned, he’d have looked at me while he swallowed me down; Oliver, Oliver, Oliver.”

My eyes hurt so I closed them.

I felt him return to me, but I did not move.

His breath was on my face; his wet curls tickled my cheek.

“Stop this please,” he whispered, “I’m not the boy you’ve made up in your fantasies. You got me all backwards, like the title of that song.”

I let out a strangled laugh.

“I want this as much as you, if not more. I just have no practice,” he said.

“Don’t you?”

He teased the line of my jaw with the tip of his tongue.

“God, you really are an idiot,” he said, but I felt his smile as it caressed my earlobe. “This works both ways, don’t you see? I can only be myself with you; all of me with all of you. The alternative is part-time living, for me and you alike.”

I closed my arms around him, drawing the first deep breath in what seemed like an eternity.

“How did you get to be so wise?”

He shook with silent mirth.

“You did say that my wisdom was my most winning trait.”

“You remembered that.”

“I remember everything, Oliver,” he said, “You told Vimini that you liked me more than I liked you.”

“She thought I was right and she’s a genius.”

“Maybe, but she was also a ten-year-old kid with a crush on you.”

“Who’s being jealous now?”

He bit into my neck.

“I never denied it,” he replied, “I want you all to myself.”

He grazed my back with his nails, lightly at first then with increasing intent.

“This is a fresh start,” he said, “What we had back then was a dream.”

“Some dream.”

“This will be better,” he slid a hand between our bodies and pinched my belly, making me wince, “More honest.”

“It wasn’t dishonest before.”

“But I want more,” he whispered, fondling my balls, “And so do you, yes?”

“Mm, yes, yes.”

“Will you let me wash your hair?”

“We said-”

There was a deliriously tight grip around my hardening cock.

“Will you?” he growled.

“Please,” I breathed.

He lowered his head, and licked my nipple with the broad of his tongue. I kept my eyes shut, but held on to his neck with one hand.

“This is already a betrayal of your vows,” he murmured, as he licked a path up my throat to my lips. “Last night was already too late. You can’t turn back now.”

“It was too late when we met outside the Barbican,” I argued.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, and I was nodding when his mouth took mine.

It was a deep, languid kiss, not a biting, hurried one, but one which was slow, intoxicating and possessive. I was aware of his confidence, of his sensuality and of a manliness which had tenderness but also a touch of savagery at its core. For the first time, I caught a glimpse of the lovers we could become: sharing a life that was as unlike my current one as day is to night.

I’d never wanted anything or anyone more.


	14. Secrets and Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I swear I started writing and these two made me change my plans. They have a will of their own, what can I say.
> 
> Elio's POV.

The first thing I had noticed about Oliver – aside from his stature and Greek god body – had been his Star of David pendant: glinting in the sun, resting on the hollow of his throat, cushioned by a tuft of chest hair. That morning he’d been freshly shaved and his neck smooth but it was obvious even then that - unlike me - he could have easily grown a luscious beard. I had been hypnotised by the nonchalance with which Oliver wore that symbol of our heritage: how he didn’t hesitate to leave the two top buttons or his shirt undone to show it off, as though it meant nothing and everything.

I had wanted to touch it, wanted it so badly I could think of little else that night, tossing and turning in my bed: his muscular neck with its prominent Adam’s apple, its golden skin, which would shimmer with sweat and smell intensely of him, a man whose milky boyhood was long gone; only his armpits and his groin could excite me more, and those were out of bounds. In those early days, I never imagined I would get to put my skin all over his or that he’d come to crave me as much I did him.

“Bristly,” I said, nuzzling the underside of his jaw.

“I could shave,” he replied, his hand stroking my back, “Or you could do it for me.”

“Tempting, very, very tempting, but no, I like it. I like this, too,” I added, sponging his thigh from knee to crotch. He shivered and his caress intensified, but he did not speak.

“You were smoother, in my memories.”

The summer sun had bleached his body hair and his glorious tan had done the rest.

“Do you mind?”

He’d closed his eyes and was breathing through his nose; I could feel his heartbeat thudding beneath my fingers.

 _Are you insane_? I wanted to say; as if it were even remotely possible that I would dislike anything about you, Oliver.

I took his hand and put it on my engorged dick.

“Your hair on my flesh,” I murmured in his ear, “I can’t wait to be chafed red all over.”

He moaned, deep in his throat.

I dipped the sponge into soapy water and started washing his torso; his nipples were hard and I couldn’t resist them; I rolled one between my fingers while mouthing at the other, grazing it with a hint of teeth.

“Fuck,” he cried out, and his hand closed around my cock.

“You like this?” I pinched and bit down, hard; he fisted me from root to tip; the water sloshing around us, steam and lavender scent filling the room.

“God, yes, yes,” he groaned. I’d let the sponge fall into the water and it had floated close to Oliver’s solar plexus. Only then I noticed that he had a small scar there, half-concealed by dark, wiry hairs.

“What happened?” I asked, dabbing at it with my lips. I could barely feel the raised tissue; it must have been an old wound, I reasoned. He removed his hand from me and used it to scratch his nose.

“I had a little accident about two years ago,” he said, sounding embarrassed. “Nothing serious, but it could have been so much worse. I was lucky.”

I kissed the whitish jagged line; he trembled, exhaled a soft sigh, said nothing.

“Will you tell me what happened?” I wasn’t asking.

He grabbed my hand and squeezed it.

“I fell off my bike and ended up in a ditch. The handlebars nearly impaled me.”

“I didn’t know you cycled in New York.”

“I don’t.”

“And I don’t like riddles.”

He heaved a deep breath and looked me straight in the eye.

“We went to Saratoga Springs in June 1984.”

“Your honeymoon,” I said, feeling as though I was getting stabbed in the guts. I was taking the exams for my Diploma and he was on a sex holiday with a woman I’d never met and that he’d committed to for life.

“Alice... she likes horses and hates travelling. She won’t fly anywhere.”

“And you liked it because-”

“There’s a lovely lake and a famous artists’ community. Your father told me that he went to Yaddo years ago with your mother.”

Suddenly, I understood the meaning of the expression _seeing red_ and I rubbed my eyes to make it go away. I couldn’t believe it because it was just too devious.

“She was pregnant with me at the time,” I hissed, “Did he tell you that too?”

At least he didn’t even try to lie.

“It wasn’t like that, it sort of happened,” he replied. “Your mother wanted to know whether we’d travel to Italy so I had to tell them.”

He froze, realising what he’d just said.

“They wanted you to come to and stay with us during your fucking honeymoon?”

My high had disappeared, leaving a cold empty rage in its place. Deep down, I knew I was being irrational and childish, but I had nursed that resentment for so long that it had become a comfort blanket.

“I would never have come, not ever,” he said, at once pale and horrified.

“But they proposed it.”

“Only to go visit if we were in the neighbourhood.”

“I can’t believe they could be so insensitive,” I said, holding back the tears, “They knew about us; how bad it was for me; they had seen how distant you’d been with me at Christmas; they knew that you broke my fucking heart!”

He wrapped his arms around me and manhandled me so that I ended up sitting on his lap; I didn’t have the will-power to resist him.

“I’m not sure they realised at the time,” he whispered, as he kissed my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth. “Maybe they believed you were already over it. We had a brief conversation, I told them we were going to Saratoga and your father mentioned Yaddo and it was then that Ann-, that your mother said, well, the other thing.”

“Did she suggest your wife might get pregnant too while you were there?”

I was feeling nauseous; I hated the lavender, the steam, the pitying expression on Oliver’s face.

“Please don’t do this,” he murmured. “That was the past, we talked about it, remember? We can’t change it, we can only move on.”

Easier said than done, I thought.

“And you two went bike-riding?”

“Yes.”

“And you fell and hurt yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

I regretted it the moment it came out of my mouth.

“I only wish I’d been there to take care of you,” I said, “First it was Anchise and then your wife. I want to be the only one to patch you up.”

“You will be.” He smiled, dotting my face with kisses. “Although I hope I won’t keep falling off my bike.”

“That’s because you are a show-off.”

“Takes one to know one,” he laughed. God, he was even more beautiful when he was happy. I wanted to be the one who sparked that light in his eyes. I played with his hair and tugged it.

“What are you suggesting?”

“Nothing, my lips are sealed.”

“Are they?”

I pulled harder and his head shot back. I bent down to suck on his Adam’s apple.

“Elio,” he moaned, and I shoved my tongue inside his mouth and took what I needed. After a while, I straddled him, and despite the awkwardness of the position, I had him where I wanted him: naked, wet and under me. I wished I could leave my own mark on his skin, but I couldn’t, not yet.

“Is there anything else I should know?” I asked, ten fingers in his hair, nails grazing his scalp. “Any more secrets you are keeping from me?”

He shook his head.

“I want you to tell me something you never told anyone.”

“I already did.”

“With words,” I insisted.

We stared at each other; he licked his lips, nervously.

“I needed you so much,” he said, “You don’t know what it’s been like.”

I thought I had a pretty good idea, but I kept quiet, all the while tugging at his hair.

“You remember how sore one gets after biking all day.”

I nodded. My dick was poking him in the stomach, but he refrained from touching it.

“We’d go back to the hotel, I’d take a shower, alone, and the ache in my ass-” he moaned, as I grazed the spot behind his ear.

“It reminded me of you, of that first day in Rome, when you fingered me for hours.”

The memory was etched in my brain: the ferocious heat, the stickiness of the figs we’d eaten while we’d enjoyed the view from our window. I had refused to consider that the end of our affair was in sight and I’d lived in the moment, because that’s what happiness is: the closest approximation to not thinking and just feeling.

“I thought of you and did it to myself, three fingers, your name in my mouth,” he said, his voice was cracking. “I came so hard, hadn’t done that since, well, you know when.”

“On your honeymoon,” I said, and he gave me a crooked smile.

“Yeah, I should have got the message.”

“Idiot,” I whispered. He slid down and I clutched the back of his head to steady myself and my other hand closed around my cock. I gave it a stroke and the glans nearly touched his chin.

“Come on my face,” he murmured, “Please.”

“You want that?”

“Yes,” he replied. Under me, his whole body was tense and shaken now and then by tremors, like a volcano about to erupt.

“If you promise not to move, I’ll let you have some in your mouth.”

“Oh god,” he whined, but something in him gave way and stilled.

“Look at me,” I ordered, and the sky blue of his eyes tinged with night as he did as told. I rubbed my dick furiously; I was already close, having been on edge since morning.

“This is what I do, when I, fuck, when I think of you, when I miss you, and I still feel you, god, yes, you let me, everything, so much, yes, inside you, fuck, yes, yes, coming, oh fuck, coming, coming,” I sprayed his throat and face with my release, some of it landed on his lips; he lapped it up and I fed him more, gave him all that I had until I was dry.

“You’ll kill me,” he croaked, as I collapsed against his chest.

“I hope not,” I replied, mimicking the words he’d said to me so long ago.

The water was cooling and I hadn’t even taken care of him. He petted my curls, my ear, the side of my neck, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he whispered, and it soothed me.

“You got spunk in your hair,” I said, “Now I really have to wash it.”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” he mocked.

“I’ll show you trouble.”

“That’s my turn,” he said, pinning me against the side of the tub.                     

We wrestled and water splashed all over the floor, drenching the fluffy bath-rug.

“Skinny little shit,” he growled, as I tried to climb him, “I’ll show you who’s in charge here,” and he turned the shower on; the water cascaded on me and while I was momentarily helpless, he poured shampoo on top of my head and worked it into my sodden hair. I pretended to stop fighting, but as soon as he thought he was safe, I gathered a handful of lather and threw it in his face.

“Traitor, traitor,” he shouted, but some of the foam had gone into his eyes and he was trying to rinse them, but I wouldn’t let him.

“Who’s in charge then?” I asked, shaking my soapy curls in the direction of his mouth.

“Stop it,” he was laughing and crying at the same time, so I took pity on him.

“Let me finish what I started,” I said, and as I finally washed his hair, taking great care not to hurt him, I felt that something crucial had been settled between us.

 


	15. L'Amant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are being lovely and fluffy.  
> Oliver receives a phone call and the cat is out of the bag!
> 
> Elio's POV and then Oliver's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> L'amant (The Lover) is an autobiographical novel by Marguerite Duras, published in 1984. There's also a film adaptation with the same title. They are both extremely erotic.
> 
> De Beauvoir Square is in Hackney and is like a Surrey village among the council homes and industrial estates. Bizarre.

Since I’d known Oliver, I’d never been inside his bedroom. In Italy, he’d slept in my room and in Rome we’d shared a suite.

I stopped on the threshold of his room, unsure whether I really wanted to come face to face with the evidence of the other person in his life.

“What’s wrong?” he said, cupping the back of my head. His forearm smelled of fabric softener.

“Has anybody else been in here?”

“You cousin is nosy, but not that nosy.”

I laughed: it was a fake, hollow thing.

“You don’t know Jack, but I didn’t mean him anyway.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I thought so. I told you about- she doesn’t like to travel.”

“I meant other men.”

It wasn’t that I didn’t believe him, but I needed to hear him say it. If he was cheating on her with me, couldn’t he have done it with another boy, a student perhaps? A drink too many, a joint or two: would he remember, the morning after?

One glance at his face and I wanted to turn back time and eat my words. There was this nasty voice inside my head and I hadn’t yet learned how to silence it.

He chewed the inside of his cheek; he wasn’t angry, just sad.

“You are the only man I have been with since that summer.”

His tone was solemn, as though he’d been asked to swear to tell the truth before a Jury.

I leaned against him and he kissed the top of my head.

“Do you still sleep on the left-hand side?”

“Here, I do.”

“What about your books: do you still hide one under your pillow?”

“Same answer.”

He was smiling: I could hear it in his voice.

“What are you reading?”

“Nothing pornographic.”

“I didn’t--- why not?”

“My type is not in fashion. I don’t like body builders and big hairy cowboys.”

I stroked down his back and grabbed his buttocks with both hands.

“They totally do it for me,” I growled, and raised my eyes to meet his, “Cowboys,” I added, and clicked my tongue.

He guffawed and flushed like a schoolboy.

“Pervert,” he said.

“I’m not asking you to don the full regalia.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Maybe just the hat and the boots.”

“And I can choose the clothes?”

“What clothes?”

He kissed the tip of my nose.

“Get inside,” he said, and pushed me inside the room, but didn’t stay.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll be back in a moment,” he replied, “Make yourself at home.”

The room was tidy but not excessively so; it was large enough to include a desk and two armchairs. On the desk were two separate piles of books and magazines: one was work-related, with volumes such as _Art and Imagination_ by Roger Scruton and _The Beautiful in Music_ by Eduard Hanslick. The other stack was more revealing of Oliver’s tastes, and among the novels by Baldwin and Cheever was Celan’s _Die Niemandsrose_. I stuck my nose between the pages and inhaled.

The smell of ink made me hanker for another kind of fragrance. I sat down on the bed and buried my face in Oliver’s pillow. It reminded me of that afternoon in Italy when I’d slipped between the covers of his bed – my bed – and his scent had enveloped me, welcoming and wholesome. The essence of him was still there, only slightly altered by the lack of one ingredient or the addition of another.

Underneath the pillow, as predicted, was the novel he was currently reading.

“You have to be kidding me,” I said, when he came in carrying two mugs of hot chocolate.

“What- don’t you like chocolate anymore?”

I showed him the cover of the book.

“I’m trying to learn French,” he said, convincing no-one.

“It’s the translation.”

He set the mugs on the desk - on top of an old issue of The New Yorker – and sat close to me.

“First I’ll read it in English and then-”

I silenced him by reading the blurb printed on the back cover.

“ _The Lover_ _reveals the intimacies and intricacies of a clandestine romance between a pubescent girl from a financially strapped French family and an older, wealthy Chinese-Vietnamese man_.”

“Everybody says it’s a great book,” he said, impishly.

“Who’s everybody?”

He bit his lips.

“Nobody, but I know a French boy who might like it,” he said, tickling my tummy.

“You don’t like French people,” I replied, hitting him with the slim volume. “Remember what you said about the knight who didn’t know whether to speak or die?”

“Yes, but I wasn’t talking about him.”

He pushed me down on the bed and tried to pin my arms, but I fought back.

“I was talking about you.”

We wrestled and rolled around until we were both breathless and spent.

“What about me?”

“You had already told me that story and I was hoping you’d finally made up your mind to speak but then you didn’t and I might have become a little impatient.”

“I didn’t have to be the first to speak,” I argued.

“Yes, you did.” And of course, he was right. “But just so you know: I like French boys; well, at least one; well, he’s not really French.”

“ _Très rigolo_ ,” I replied, doing my best ‘snooty Parisian’ imitation.

He pinched my side and I bit his shoulder, and we were off again, making a mess of his bed and laughing like idiots.

When we finally had enough, we settled down, side by side, and sipped our drinks.

“Have you read it?” he asked.

“I wanted to, but I thought it was too close to the bone. And I’m pretty sure it doesn’t end well.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Then why read it? It’s not your kind of novel.”

“What’s my kind then?”

“Something manly, like Hemingway or Conrad.”

“May I remind you that I am not actually a cowboy?”

I sighed, dramatically.

“Another shattered illusion.”

His shoulder nudged mine and I nuzzled his hair: we smelled alike.

“Oh, but my Mrs Blackwater would certainly like it.”

“Who’s that?”

“One my students,” I explained, “She’s hopeless as a pianist and even worse with money, but she lives in this enormous house in De Beauvoir Square. You should see it: right in the middle of one of London’s poorest areas, but it’s like being in a village in the countryside.”

“And she lives there alone?”

“With a dozen cats, and two parakeets who hate me.”

“They probably just hate the sound of her plunking.”

“She used to have peacocks in her back garden, but they died of fowl pox.”

He burst into giggles.

“Why are you laughing? It’s a respiratory disease: they were wheezing, poor birds.”

That did it: he was holding his stomach and had tears in his eyes. I pretended to pout, but his mirth was contagious.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, “that they died, but it all sounds so absurd.”

“You should see the interior of the house and the clothes she wears: it’s like Poe meets Dickens with a dash of Wilkie Collins.”

“How did she find you?”

“Oh, she’s a Barbican member. She loves classical music.”

“And you think she’d like The Lover.”

I took his hand and brought it to my lips.

“It’ll remind her of her youth. Her father was a diplomat and he was stationed in Hong Kong when she was a young girl.”

“Does she tell you all these stories?”

“Me and the parakeets.”

“No wonder they hate you,” he grinned, “They are jealous. Do they call you names?”

“They call me by my name, but I sense that they are mocking me.”

“Elio, Elio, Elio,” he intoned, mimicking the shrieks of a parrot.

“You’re just envious of them.”

His bare foot covered mine.

“Of course I am,” he whispered, “They get to spend time with you and hear you play.”

“You wouldn’t want to be in a cage.”

“I guess it would depend on the type of enclosure.”

His foot slipped underneath mine.

“Now who’s the pervert?”

He smiled and closed his eyes. After we’d finished our drinks, and talked some more about books we’d read and films we’d seen, we both started yawning. We hadn’t slept much and it had been an eventful few hours.

“May I sleep on your side of the bed?”

“What a terrible sacrifice,” he feigned annoyance, “Okay, but only if you take everything off.”

He had given me a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, since my clothes were in the wash.

“I’m going to be cold,” I said, batting my eyes at him.

“You’re still a flirt,” he huffed, as he removed his own pants. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you warm. And no, it’s not what you are thinking.”

Before I could protest, he had gathered me into his arms and he held me there, my back to his chest. I imagined such proximity and our nakedness would awaken our libido but we fell asleep almost immediately.

 

I woke up to the sound of a ringing phone. Next to me, Elio was dead to the world. His parted lips and soft snoring noises were as endearing as a child’s.

I slunk out of bed trying not to wake him and grabbed my discarded clothes as I went. I thanked the heavens that I didn’t have a phone extension in the bedroom, one of the many English eccentricities which I had railed against but was now glad of.

Predictably, it was Alice.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be home, but I needed to talk to you,” she said.

My heart missed a couple of beats.

“You okay?” I asked, clearing my throat, where my heart had taken residence.

“I’ve been thinking about our anniversary.”

“What about it?”

“Aaron has a boat,” she blurted out, “And he offered - at dinner, the other night – he mentioned that he’d be more than happy to let us have it for that week-end.”

I barely knew Aaron, who’d made a recent come back into Alice’s life after having lived in Singapore for ten years. Her family adored him, because unlike me he worked to make money and was very ambitious. To be fair, he wasn’t a bad sort: he was generous and sociable. We didn’t have much in common, aside from being young, Jewish and regularly going to the gym.

“I have never sailed a boat in my life,” I replied.

“Oh, we wouldn’t be alone,” she said, “He’d be there, with Sarah and Paul. I told you about Paul?”

“The accountant,” I suggested.

“Yeah, so they’d all be there and the weather should be awesome too, if you can ever trust the weather reports. Aaron says long term predictions are as reliable as horoscopes.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“You still with me?” she enquired. Good question, I thought. Better to get it out of the way before it festered.

“I was thinking of coming home at the beginning of May.”

She was silent for a long moment.

“What’s happened?” she asked, “Is Will alright?”

“He’s fine, well, not fine, but getting there. It’s not him, it’s me.”

“You hate being there, don’t you? London looks so dirty and run down, whenever they show it on TV.”

“It’s no dirtier than New York,” I countered, “No, it’s --- I have met--- someone I used to know.”

“During your Italian holiday?” she went straight to the point, and that was another thing I liked about her.

“Yes.”

“Did you know she was going to be in London?”

Ay, there was the rub.

“Yes.”

Omission: half a lie.

“Did you sleep with her?”

I could have philosophised about the subtleties of mutual masturbation, but that was hardly the time.

“Yes.”

I heard her heavy breathing and hoped she wasn’t crying.

“What is she like?”

That was it; I couldn’t go on lying.

“I told you about Professor Perlman and his family.”

“Yes, Samuel and his wife Anne.”

“Annella”

“Never mind,” she said, curtly, “Oh, is that?”

“No.”

“Wait, you said it was only them and their son.”

I held my breath. After a minute or so, I heard Alice make a noise I’d never heard before, something between a cackle and a sob.

“I fucking knew it!” She never swore. Not habitually, anyway. “That’s why you wouldn’t sleep with me. At first, I thought it was another woman, but you don’t even look at them. The only time I’ve seen you excited was when that boy played Bach at Sarah’s birthday party. It wasn’t the music, it was the boy.”

“It was the music,” I replied, “I can’t even remember what he looked like.”

She snorted.

“Sure, like I’m gonna believe you now.”

“He was playing a piece which Elio,” I stopped, but a second too late.

“Elio Perlman: that’s his name. Well, at least he’s Jewish. Not that it will make much difference to your parents.”

Shit, I had completely forgotten about them.

“I’m not gonna tell,” she said, “My mother would never leave me alone and the last thing I need is to have her on my back.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I bet you are.”

“I never wanted it to happen. It just sort of did.”

“Dear god, Oliver, you are a professor, you even wrote a book! Spare me these teen girl platitudes. By the way, how old is this boy?”

I gritted my teeth. Damn, I really needed a cigarette; or a drink; or both.

“Twenty,” I murmured, adding, “He will be twenty-one in December.”

I waited for the explosion which duly came.

“What? You slept with a boy of seventeen? What the hell were you thinking? What were his parents doing? Did they even know?”

I told her all I could; she said nothing for a while, only made humming noises.

“I can’t talk to you right now,” she said, “Don’t change your tickets. Don’t call me.”

“Alice, please,” I didn’t quite know what I was asking of her.

“I will call you. Tomorrow, maybe,” she replied, and slammed the phone down.


	16. The Sense of an Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver talk and do... more than talking...
> 
> Elio's POV then Oliver's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments make me so happy!!! Thanks to you all!!!!
> 
> The title of this chapter is a novel by Julian Barnes

 

The first thing I smelled was the scent of rosemary and for a moment I was back in Italy again.

Oliver wasn’t by my side, but I could hear noises in the near distance.

I put his t-shirt on but not the pants, which anyway were surplus to requirement.

When I found him in the kitchen, he was doing something unholy to a chicken.

“Why is your hand inside that bird instead of--?”

He turned to me and smiled: pale, watery, not reaching his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’m stuffing it with butter and rosemary.”

“Why are you cooking? It’s barely past four.”

“Cooking helps me deal with stress.”

That didn’t sound very promising.

“Did this,” I gestured between the two of us, “Did I do or say something I shouldn’t?”

“No, that would be me.”

Was he already pulling away from me?

“Alice called,” he said, as he continued his preparations.

“You told her about changing your tickets and she wasn’t happy.”

“I told her about us, about you.”

For a while the only sound was the squelching of butter as it was pushed and massaged underneath the chicken’s skin.

“Why? You said you wanted to tell her in person.”

“Yeah, I know,” he snapped, “I had it all mapped out: first, tell her about the tickets; second, drop a few hints, third, go to New York and confess the truth with the help of a large vodka martini.”

He snorted.

“And?”

“She wanted to go on a boat with Aaron for our anniversary.”

“Who’s Aaron?”

“Some schmuck who works in Wall Street,” he said, dismissively.

He was describing a world I’d only caught glimpses of; it made Oliver seem distant too; at least this Oliver, with his wealthy friends and a wife who liked to go sailing for their anniversary.

“I don’t understand and I need fresh air,” I replied, “I’ll be out on the terrace.”

“Don’t you--?”

“Finish your weird mating ritual then we’ll talk.”

“Elio,” he called, but I was already on my way out.

Outside, I sat on the pitted concrete, drew a couple of deep breaths and reflected on the situation: Oliver’s wife knew about me, he’d told her and perhaps was already regretting it. Maybe he liked boats too and he resented that I was the reason he couldn’t be there, with his wife and friends. What the fuck did I know about the life he led and that he was giving up for me?”

“Hey you,” he said, and wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, “Come back inside, it’s too cold out here and you’re half naked.” He ruffled my hair and, seeing that I had no intention of moving, he sat next to me.

“I couldn’t stomach any more lies,” he said, softly, “Not with you in my bed.”

“Did that make a difference?”

“In Rome, that last morning I watched you sleep and I thought I’d never get to see that again. That was the closest to death I’ve ever been.”

“You didn’t---”

“No, but it hurt so fucking much.”

I kissed his neck and felt his pulse jump beneath my lips.

“I was listening to her talking about this and that and all I could think was you, in Rome, dreaming of god-knows-what, your mouth open and your back sticky with sweat.”

“It wasn’t only sweat,” I said, “You’d come on me and I was too far gone to shower.”

We’d spent the night making love and he’d insisted in marking me with his ejaculate; I had done the same to him.

“I was dreaming of you. I’ll tell you another time.”

I wanted him to know that I was there for him; that there would _be_ another time.

“I couldn’t bear to speak about the future and pretend you were not going to be in it. I just wish I hadn’t been so blunt.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Of course it’s my damn fault!” he shouted, “She’s my wife, but she’s my friend too, and the way I have treated her--- she didn’t deserve any of this.”

I stroked his hand and he didn’t pull away.

“What did she say?”

“She told me not to change the tickets and she’ll call me back tomorrow, maybe.”

“What do you think will happen?”

I laced my fingers with his.

“She asked me how old you were,” he sighed, “She was shocked that you were only seventeen when it started.”

“Didn’t she mind that I wasn’t a girl?”

“She said I never look at other women. That, and the fact we weren’t, you know.”

“Fucking?”

He blushed, and I thought that his primness would never cease to delight me.

“I don’t want her to hate me, but she has every reason to, like you did.”

“I never hated you, not really.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I thought I did, but it was my way of not letting you go.”

“I always do the wrong thing.”

“Yeah, you are a bit like a bull in a china shop,” I joked, and he snorted a laugh.

“But you would have hurt her more if you’d kept up the pretence. She’d have expected what you couldn’t give her and she’d have been shattered when you rejected her.”

His face crumpled.

“I should never have married her,” he said, softly. “I was sure I couldn’t have you and never wanted to feel that way again.”

“What way?”                                                              

He stared at me and I couldn’t even blink.

“As though I would always be alone,” he murmured, “And if I had to compromise at least it would be with someone I respected, someone I loved. What a mess!”

“Was she compromising too?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. Her parents wouldn’t get off her back, mine were no different; we laughed and had fun together. I wasn’t unhappy, but--”

“But you only desire men,” I said, “A certain type of man.”

His grasp tightened and he averted his eyes.

“And you don’t,” he replied, “You desire everybody.”

Matter-of-fact, firm, with only a tinge of bitterness: he was stating his truth. I couldn’t and wouldn’t deny that he was right, but what did it matter since I already belonged to him?

“Only you drive me insane,” I licked his earlobe, “I can’t stop wanting you, even after I’ve just had you.”

“I know the feeling,” he rasped, offered me his neck and I licked that too, “Remember that afternoon with the thunderstorm: how many times did we do it?”

“Five, if we are counting the frottage,” I replied, nibbling his collarbone.

“We are definitely counting it,” he sighed, “You came all over my red shorts.”

“I’d wanted to do that from day one. I hadn’t anticipated that you’d clean them up with your tongue.”

“That was a surprise for me too.”

“It got me hard again in no time, only looking at you lapping up my load.”

“You tasted amazing; you still do.”

I couldn’t let this pass unremarked: I had to kiss him. I straddled his lap and took his face in my hands.

“Elio,” he whispered, as he let me in.

He tasted of citrus and salt, and his tongue was hungry and teasing and skilful. His kisses were always revealing; he never held back or pretended, like he sometimes did with his words or expressions. This kiss was telling me that he was done waiting.

“Let’s get back inside,” I said, when we parted. “Yes,” he agreed, and he let me lead the way.

 

_“When I went away, when I left him, I didn’t go near another man for two years. But that mysterious fidelity must have been to myself.” – The Lover_

It was that random sentence - which caught my attention while skimming through the book I’d picked up because of its title – that made me buy it.

It had made me reflect on my fidelity, on my lack of interest in sex. Was it really about Elio or was I mourning the part of me which had been young and carefree during our brief time together? Was I just chasing that feeling of many years ago when Flynn stamped his mark on me like a cigarette burn?

I did say that I was an idiot.

The mere mention of Elio’s name gave me the shivers yet I still doubted my love for him. Doubting is an essential ingredient of cowardice and I had plenty of both.

The truth was – as it’s often the case in these affairs – rather simple: I was in love with Elio and I wanted him to love me in return, as passionately and exclusively. And since I did not believe the latter could be achieved, I had cut him out of my life. My libido had never left Italy: it was still between his legs, inside his mouth, all over his skin. After two years of feeding only on memories, it was screaming for release.

 

It was a first time of sorts.

Back then, when I’d allowed myself to let go, there has always been a hidden layer of restraint, a voice which urged: don’t show him, don’t ask and you won’t be disappointed. By some divine serendipity, Elio had revealed that he could be who I needed him to be. I had regarded it as inevitable that I wouldn’t be able to live up to his expectations.

Two years and a failed marriage later, the games and strategies _had to be over_.

“What do you want?” he asked, once we were back in my bedroom.

He had unbuttoned my top and his hands were sliding up and down my stomach, tantalising close yet avoiding my more sensitive areas.

“You, in my ass,” I replied, my voice oddly firm.

His cock was tenting the front of his t-shirt, my t-shirt, and there was a wet stain where his glans was pressing against the fabric.

“This?” he asked, guiding my hand to his bulge. He was licking his lips already, anticipating my reply.

“And this,” I said, slipping two fingers inside his mouth, seeking his tongue. He sucked on them, looking me dead in the eye.

Every single scrape of youthful clumsiness had gone, leaving behind a man who knew what needed to be done and was masterful at it. He was like one of those pubescent boys whom the war had turned into soldiers and within a year or two transformed into ruthless killing machines.

“Are you sure?” he asked, “I don’t want you to regret any of this.”

I removed my wedding ring and placed it on the desk.

“No regrets,” I replied, waiting for his next move.

He slid my shirt off my shoulders and let it fall on the floor. He then pulled my pants down until the pooled at my feet. When I kicked them away, my dick bobbed and slapped against my belly.

Elio was staring at me as though he was ready to pounce. _Eat you alive_ , he’d said, and his famished eyes didn’t contradict him.

He then removed his top and I admired the rosy flush that painted the skin of his torso, up to his throat and cheekbones.

“Please tell me you have condoms,” he said, cupping my balls as he steered me towards the bed.

“Top drawer,” I replied, barely aware of the words coming out of my mouth.

He made sure I was sat on the bed before he took out a pack of Durex and a tube of K-Y. The former was still sealed, but the latter was three-quarters full.

He leered at me, his eyes dark and intense in the greyish light.

“Think of me when you jerk off?” he asked, tossing the tube on the bed.

“Always”

“You better,” he bit out. He opened the box and plucked out one condom, which he placed on the nightstand. Once he’d taken care of the practicalities, he became yet another person. He’d cut off his restraints one by one, and what remained was pure eroticism. I was dazed with desire and the realisation that, after a seemingly endless wait, my man was going to fuck me.

Elio climbed on top of me and pushed until I was stretched out sideways on the mattress.

“Look at you,” he growled, and attacked my mouth in a punishing kiss, before biting down my throat and torso. He was sucking bruises where only he could see them, contemplating his work with a cruel smirk of satisfaction.

“On your hands and knees,” he ordered, after he’d made one last mark inside my thigh.

I complied and the interval between my positioning and Elio’s touch made me anxious, almost panic-stricken.

He must have sensed it, because he caressed the length of my back and murmured soothing words. If was only when my breath returned to normal that he told me to spread my buttocks, and after that everything melted into ecstasy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More action to come....lots more...


	17. Sexual Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex happens... and some talking too..
> 
> Mind the tags for smut...
> 
> Elio's POV then Oliver's

I was with Oliver, in his bed: in many ways, it still resembled a dream.

And yet, of the men I’d been with I only remembered random details: the mole on a shoulder-blade, the line of a nose, the curve of an erect cock.

But it was different with Oliver: in my recollections, he had been entirely himself, from top to toe, inside and out.

I stroked his shoulders and down his back and I relished the softness of his skin, but it didn’t take me by surprise; nor had I forgotten the tenderness his pliancy evoked in me.

“Spread your buttocks,” I said, and he did as told, as though he’d been waiting for this moment; to have his cheek pressed to his pillow and his body at my mercy.

I glanced at his face and was transported back to that first evening in Rome: he looked younger and terribly vulnerable.

I bent down to kiss his fingers, his wrists; he shivered, anticipating another kind of touch. That tremor shattered my self-control and from then on, I let my instincts prevail.

“Is this what you want?” I said, and licked the furled hole, hard, with the broad of my tongue.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he cried and his pelvis gave a sharp jolt.

“Don’t move.” I didn’t have to threaten him; he knew what my tone meant.

“You taste so good,” I said, and dove back in. I lapped around and inside his anus, sucked on it, felt it loosen around my tongue. Vaguely, I heard Oliver moan and let out a stream of broken words. My kiss had left him dripping wet, but he needed the sting of pain. While he was still lost in his bliss, I slicked my middle finger and without hesitation, I plunged it into him, down to its base.

“Fuck,” he hissed, but his insides were gripping me, hot and tight.

I bit the meat of a glute and felt a pang of hunger in my belly.

Another finger slid in and he swallowed it, like he’d been starving for more. I wanted to feel the stretched flesh with my tongue, so I licked the taut ring, but then I couldn’t just stop there: I went down and down until I was nuzzling his sac. I could barely breathe and my face was flushed and sweaty, but I was in heaven. As I swallowed one of his balls inside my mouth, he begged me to fuck him.

“Please, please,” he was keening; I don’t think he knew what he was saying, or how wrecked he looked, with his hair all tousled and the sweat trickling down his spine.

 

I’d never worn a condom with him and never been without it when I slept with other people: I hated how it suggested that he was like the others; that we had to be careful because he had a wife and I had casual sex with strangers.

This time I was thankful for it, since it saved me from shooting as soon as I pushed into him.

I’d meant to savour every moment, but I was so hard I ached and Oliver was shaking with need; my head was swimming and it was too much, I couldn’t wait another second.

“Take it, fuck, take it,” I grunted, and slammed into him.

He screamed and I was afraid I’d hurt him, but he ground his ass into my groin, circling his hips; he wanted more and I obliged, alternating deep and shallow thrusts, yanking his hair when he tried to touch himself and even administering a vicious spank when he rubbed against the sheets. He liked that a lot and so did my dick, which was being squeezed and massaged to orgasm. I reached around and clasped Oliver’s cockhead: it was drenched and swollen and I wanted it in my mouth. I loved how huge and velvety it felt in my hand and how blood-hot it became just before he climaxed.

“Now, now,” I sobbed, and his whole body seized up and writhed, milking every last drop of semen out of me.

 

“I may be dead,” I murmured into his chest, after we’d untangled our limbs and cleaned up the mess. He hummed.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Very,” he replied, “Never better.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Yeah,” he sighed, and kissed the top of my head.

We were spent and close to falling asleep, but the sex had been so intense it had electrified our blood and nerves. It made us direct and honest.

“You like that.”

“I like to feel that I have been fucked.”

“By me,” I said, stroking a bruise I’d made on his collarbone, “Not by anybody else.”

“No, just you,” he said, running his fingers through my hair.

“Aren’t you going to ask?”

He drew a deep breath and I looked up into his face: he was smiling and his eyes were shining and pure, like a cloudless sky.

“I’ve had a long time to think about it and I’ve concluded that I have to risk it: nothing is guaranteed and making promises is like writing in the sand.”

“Sounds like you don’t trust me.”

His thumb stroked my cheekbone.

“It’s not you; it’s just the way life goes.”

I batted his hand away and rolled off his body.

“Why are you different then? It always comes down to this: you don’t think I can be faithful. Funny that, since you are the one who got married.”

“No, don’t, I’m not saying that,” he placed a hand on my sternum. “I trust you, but don’t want you to limit yourself. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I want you to be happy, with or without me; that I won’t run away again.”

I covered his hand with mine, guided it to rest above my heart.

“This is yours,” I said, then slid it down my body, to my not-quite-flaccid dick. “This is yours too.”

He’d followed the progression of our joined hands with mesmerised eyes.

“I don’t want to share you with anybody,” he said, at last. “I want to be the only one for you.”

My cock twitched in response, and we both laughed.

“Come back here,” he said, trying to scoop me back into his arms.

“Wait, I need a cigarette.”

I looked around and saw the pack of Silk Cut on the desk; next to it was Oliver’s wedding ring. I grabbed both and returned to bed.

“What will you do with it?” I asked, handing him the gold band.

“I can’t wear it anymore.”

“You have to, at least at work,” I replied, as I lighted the cigarette to conceal my emotion. “It would be noticed and you’d attract a lot of unwanted attention.”

His lips curved into an impish smile.

“I see,” he said, “Thinking about anyone in particular?”

I sucked on the cigarette, hollowing my cheeks for show.

“Students fall for their teachers all the time,” I said, “And you being you---”

“As if a wedding ring would stop them,” he chuckled.

“Some would hold back.”

“Yeah, and some would see it as a challenge.”

I kicked his ankle.

“You want them to flirt with you!”

He plucked the cigarette from my fingers and closed his lips around it with a suggestive pout.

“Maybe,” he replied, batting his long lashes at me.

“I don’t think so,” I growled. I threw the cigarette in one of the empty mugs and shoved my tongue inside his mouth. I kissed him until we were out of breath then kissed him some more.

“I’m not wearing my ring as a deterrent,” he whispered against my lips, “It would make a bad situation worse. As for my students, I’m sure they’ll understand that I’m not available. I’ve never given them reason to think otherwise.”

“You didn’t give me reasons, with all your _later_ and _esco_.”

“I was keeping my distance after you rejected my advances.”

“Okay, just make sure to let them know you are taken.”

“Oh, I am definitely taken,” he said, as he dotted my throat with kisses.

He climbed on top of me and things were about to get interesting when the phone rang. He looked at me and I nodded, “Go answer it.”

 

 

I had already travelled so far from Alice that when I heard her voice she seemed as distant to me as the moon. That had never happened with Elio: on the contrary, he’d always felt close, as though we’d just said goodbye at that train station in Rome.

“You said tomorrow.”

Idiot, I berated myself.

“I couldn’t wait,” she replied, “There are things I need to ask.”

“Okay.”

“Why did you go to Italy? And please don’t tell me that it was to finish your book, because we both know that it’s a lie. We spoke of it the winter before, and you said you needed time to think things over. You never said you’d go to Europe.”

“I wanted to travel and someone at Columbia told me about Professor Perlman’s arrangement: I wrote to him and he accepted my application.”

“You went to Sicily first.”

“Yes, I wanted to visit the Valley of the Temples.”

I didn’t understand where she was going with these questions.

“Is that all you wanted to do? Maybe you wanted to have a little adventure, far from New York, where nobody knew you.”

“If you think that Elio’s just a fling,” I raised my voice, but she silenced me.

“Clearly he isn’t, since you are there with him and I’m here on my own. I’m not accusing you; I just want to find out the truth.”

“I didn’t intend to sleep with men,” I replied, more calmly, “But maybe I was looking for something.”

“And you found it.”

“Yes.”

“When did you realise you had?”

The moment I set my eyes on Elio, I wanted to say.

“Are you sure you want to go down this road?”

“I’m already up to my knees in mud, might as well see this metaphor through to its bitter end.”

She often did this: made me laugh when things became too intense. In that she was similar to Elio, except for the fact that he also did... other things.

“I found Elio,” I replied, “And he was different from anyone I’d ever met. But he was also very young, so I tried to avoid him.”

“But it didn’t work.”

“He was braver than me: he told me how he felt, straight to my face.”

“And you got scared.”

“Big time.”

“So you disappeared for a while, he came to look for you and this time you gave in to him.”

“I couldn’t walk away, I just couldn’t.”

She sighed and I heard the clinking of ice inside a glass.

“What time is it over there?”

“I needed a drink,” she said, “Stop acting like my mother.”

I conceded the point.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were in love with this boy?”

“He was so young and I figured that he’d go back to his life and I’d go on with mine and it would all be just a memory.”

She clicked her tongue and I heard the “oy” she had done her best to stifle.

“I should have told you,” I said.

“And I realised that you’d changed but didn’t want to rock the boat.”

“It’s my fault, not yours. What do we do now?”

“All I know is that you’re going to be here when I tell my parents. No way I’m gonna face this alone while you are swinging in London.”

“I’m not swinging,” I chuckled, “Not in any meaning of the word.”

“Change the ticket,” she said. “Let’s rip off the band-aid.”

“What about the boat?”

“Oh, I’m still going. Aaron won’t mind that you’re not there.”

“Yeah, I kind of guessed that.”

“Nothing’s happened between us.”

“I know.”

“I should go,” her voice cracked, “Call me when you have the ticket.”

“Yes,” I said, and I wanted to add that I loved her and that I was sorry, but she’d already gone.


	18. Wild Horses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have another heart to heart.
> 
> Food is being consumed and love is in the air...
> 
> Elio's POV

 

I stood there, listening to Oliver talking to his wife, riveted to the spot and holding my breath.

He was wearing a shirt which partially covered his ass, which was streaked a dark shade of pink because of what I’d done to him. There were other marks on his neck and thighs and I almost couldn’t believe that I was the cause of them.

It was even more astonishing to fully comprehend that Oliver had wanted them; that he had been craving this from the start and that I had not been aware of it.

His tone was soft with affection and from his answers I could guess that Alice wasn’t unsympathetic despite the fact she’d been betrayed.

In her shoes, I thought, I’d lose my head, take the first flight to London and scream the place down. She was better than me, and maybe he was breaking up his marriage for someone who wasn’t worth the trouble and the heartbreak.

The call was over: he put the received down and kept his hand on it, as though he was petting the head of a dog.

“I’m sorry,” I said, the words escaping me, unchecked.

He turned swiftly and his shirt gaped open, revealing his naked body.

“Thanks,” he smiled, his gaze caressing my skin, “But it’s not your fault. This is all on me.”

“She seems to have taken it well,” I observed, “Considering.”

“I really hope so.”

“And is Aaron---?”

“A friend, but angling for more.”

“Do you mind?”

He shook his head.

“I only want her to be happy. She deserves it.”

“You deserve it too.”

“I more than happy now,” he replied, ogling my crotch. I had been so entranced by his half-nudity that I’d forgotten about my own lack of clothing.

 

He stalked up to me and took me into his arms.

“You will catch cold,” he whispered.

“Not if you come back to bed with me,” I replied, and he chuckled.

“Let me just go turn the oven on,” he said, pinching my waist, “I’m gonna put some food into you.”

“Is that what you call it now?” I joked, cupping his sex.

“Were you always this brazen?” he guffawed, as he thrust into the palm of my hand.

“I sucked your toes on our first night together.”

“That was so,” he bit his lips and his eyes darkened, “Unexpected. And sensual,” he lost himself in the memory, and I with him.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he whispered, before stepping away from me.

“Wild horses wouldn’t drag me away,” I said, staring at his round, bouncy ass.

 

“Tell me something about you,” he said, as we lay in bed sharing the same pillow.“Things you have done, that made you happy.”

 _I wasn’t happy without you,_ I was about to say. But it wasn’t true. There had been moments of joy, like interludes of sunshine brightening the dull London sky.

“I didn’t spend the last two summers with my parents,” I said, “I couldn’t share my bathroom with another guest that wasn’t you. They didn’t understand, especially dad. He insisted I was too old not to behave like a good host. Life goes on, he said.”

“He was right.”

I glared at him and he laughed and kissed the tip of my nose.

“What? That’s only common sense. What do you think he should have done: let you wallow in your grief?”

“I wasn’t wallowing,” I pouted, “I was following his advice not to stifle the pain. I guess he imagined my suffering would be short-lived.”

“Where’s the happy part?”

I pulled his hair and he burst out laughing.

“Impatient,” I groused, “I couldn’t be there, so I accepted Marzia’s invitation and went to France for the summer. First we were in Paris then at her brother’s place, near Avignon.”

He turned serious.

“She was always a special friend to you,” he said, cautiously.

“We had a nice time, especially in Provence. I went horse-riding and helped with the fruit picking.”

“Peaches?” he suggested with a smirk.

“And apricots,” I said, reaching down to palm his backside.

“It must have been fun.”

“It was and I liked having something to do other than reading and playing the piano.”

“What about last year?”

“I was already in London and I didn’t have any money to spare, so I worked in a pub. It was hell at first; just learning the names of all their beers was a job in itself. At least last summer there was no football.”

He looked puzzled and I explained about the series of tournaments taking place every two years. Neither of us was a fan, so we’d never talked about it before. It was mundane yet oddly satisfying: we finally had sufficient time stretching ahead of us to chat about trivial topics; back in the day, I had considered it almost a crime to litter our precious conversations with small talk, but now I realised that indulging in it was the sign of a more settled relationship.

“It must have been hard work.”

“Yes, but fun too. I drank for free and made loads of friends.”

“I bet you had to fight them off.”

“You should know,” I winked, “You worked as a bartender in your student days. That’s what you said that night in Rome.”

He rolled his eyes.

“I wish you’d forgotten about that,” he replied, “But yeah, I made a few _friends_ too.”

“Liar,” I bit his neck and he hissed in what could have been pain, had it not been for the pressure of his hand on the back of my head which suggested otherwise, “There must have been queues around the block,” I whispered in his ear.

“I told you I don’t like casual sex.”

“With men,” I argued, “But what about women?”

It was a wild guess, but it turned out to be accurate. He flushed and I caressed his cheek until he leaned into my touch.

“I wanted to make sure,” he explained, “That I could give them what they wanted. And that I could get something in return, if I needed to. I never deceived them that it would be more than sex.”

“You were on top.”

“What?”

“You know what I mean,” I said, pressing my thumb to the corner of his mouth, “They expected you to be forceful and you didn’t disappoint them.”

He closed his eyes; his jaw worked as though he was rehearsing his reply.

“I was playing a part, but I honestly did not figure out the full extent of it until much later.”

“You were doing to them what you wanted for yourself.”

He looked startled and a bit amused.

“Was it so obvious?”

“No, but I have the advantage of being your lover.”

God, it sounded so good to say it out loud.

“So young and yet so wise,” he mocked, tenderly. I kissed his lips once, twice, then I lost count.

“Alice was different,” he continued, after a while, “I suppose it was the closest I could get to what I wanted, except for the physical side of things.”

“I don’t think you should tell me.”

“No, perhaps not,” he agreed, but I suspected that he wanted to.

“You couldn’t dominate her so you were never satisfied, not deeply anyway.”

He stroked my thigh, back and forth, with light, careful fingers.

“I accepted that I should keep that side of things locked up. I convinced myself that it wasn’t the end of the world.”

“It couldn’t have lasted,” I ruffled his hair, pulling it in the way he liked. “You would have found someone like me, sooner or later.”

“There’s no one like you.”

“If you hadn’t met me, it would have been another boy; maybe a student.”

His fingers brushed along my groin crease.

“I don’t know,” he said, pensively, “You’re everything at once. I’ve never met anyone like you.”

“That’s what you said to Alice.”

“Because it’s true,” he insisted.

I could never be accused of excessive modesty, but I certainly wasn’t all that unique.

“I transcribe music, read tons of books and play a couple of instruments,” I shrugged my shoulders, “There are thousands of people who do the same.”

“Are you fishing for compliments?” he joked, tickling my side.

“I’m genuinely curious,” I replied, grazing the back of his head with my nails.

“Okay, okay,” he grinned, raising his arms in a gesture of surrender, “I just don’t think I can put it into words. You are what I was missing all along and I was certain of it almost from the start.”

“Despite my age and that I looked even younger?”

“Yes.”

“I would have thought that,” I hesitated, didn’t want to put ideas into his head.

“That I needed someone big and rough to satisfy my needs?” he suggested, and there was a speck of pain mixed with his sarcasm. He was right: I was being childish and obtuse.

“I dreamed that you were under me,” I said, “And you begged me not to stop. That was before we kissed. I wasn’t even sure you liked men, but the dream felt right. It was a revelation, because I’d never fantasised about it before.”

“About boys or about being on top?” he asked, his voice already hoarse.

“I knew I liked boys,” I replied, drawing lazy circles on his bare chest, “But I imagined they’d take the initiative.”

He scoffed.

“What?” I challenged him.

“Perlman, know thyself,” he quipped, “You are not the type who submits easily.”

“I submitted to you the first time.”

“And we both know how well that went.”

“That wasn’t the reason,” I replied, forcefully, “I love having you inside of me, you must know that.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, and planted kisses along my throat, “But you prefer it when you’re in charge, and I should have done things differently that night.”

“You shouldn’t have stopped, if that’s what you are implying.”

He licked my Adam’s apple before sucking on it.

“No, what I meant is,” he nuzzled my jaw, “I should have let you ride me.”

“Damn tease,” I moaned, “You’re killing me here.”

“I really hope not,” he said, licking the shell of my ear, “Anyway, you can always tell me to stop.”

“Don’t stop, never stop,” I breathed, and he slid his tongue inside my mouth, while his fingers curled around my dick. He’d started to work me tight and fast when a bell rang. It wasn’t the telephone and I really hoped it wasn’t the door.

“It’s the timer,” he muttered, “For the chicken. Never mind,” he intimated.

I intended not to, but the absurdity of the situation suddenly dawned on me and I broke down laughing. He soon joined in and the spell was broken, but we were both aware that it was fine, that this bell wasn’t the whistle of a train that was taking Oliver away from me.

 

“You weren’t lying,” I said, helping myself to more roast potatoes, “You really can cook.”

“Please,” he exclaimed, with an air of pretend _lèse_ - _majesté_ , “This is nothing, only basic stuff. Even a child can roast a chicken.”

“The last time I tried, I burnt the potatoes and the chicken was still raw on the inside.”

I had been so used to having Mafalda around that I’d never even boiled an egg before I’d come to London.

“I could give you lessons if you want.”

“You could, but then again I can’t afford to buy a whole chicken. Baked beans on toast do not require a lot of expertise.”

He grimaced, but didn’t comment.

“And yes, we can afford the vodka, but it’s only a matter of priorities. Besides, it’s cheap Polish stuff that we buy from the 7-Eleven.”

“Are you saying this to torture me?”

“Come on, you were a student too, once upon a time.”

“Yes, a million years ago. We used to rub two sticks together to light a fire.”

“Idiot,” I smiled and he poured me another glass of wine.

I hadn’t felt so at peace with myself in months and I didn’t want the day to end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Elio takes Oliver out dancing. He hasn't seen Oliver dancing since Le Danzing.


	19. Constant Craving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys go out on the tiles and there is a healthy amount of smut.  
> Also a mild reference to watersports, but it's barely there. You have been warned though. :)
> 
> Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The kd lang song that gives the title to this chapter came out in 1992, but who cares :)
> 
> Thanks so much for all your kind, sweet comments. I love you all and your support means everything.

_“Maybe a great magnet pulls_  
_All souls towards truth_  
_Or maybe it is life itself_  
_That feeds wisdom_  
_To its youth”  Constant craving, kd lang_

 

I refrained from suggesting that I should iron his clothes; sure, they had been in the dryer, but they were still a little creased. Elio had insisted we go dancing and I had agreed, even though I had not been to a nightclub in ages and never to a gay hot-spot like the one he’d mentioned.

“Have you ever been to Heaven?” he’d said, after the third or fourth glass of Chardonnay.

“Only to the Orle of Paradise,” I’d joked and he had put his bare foot on mine and curled his toes in a suggestive caress.

“I don’t want this day to end,” he explained, and I’d concurred.

We were in the bedroom getting dressed: I had opted for a pair of jeans and a grey t-shirt, while he had chosen a pair of skinny black trousers and a shiny black shirt.

With his freshly washed hair and cheeks flushed by the alcohol and food, he looked very young and delectable. I could see the sharp jut of his hips and the white crescent of skin above the waistband of his pants and it was doing evil things to me; I had kept my sexual side on such a tight leash that I was almost scared to find out what a famished beast it had become. I was getting hard again, and on such a flimsy premise as a glimpse of Elio’s abdomen; it was desperate and more than a little pathetic. I shook my head and was about to put my top on when I caught his gaze on me: it was fixed on my chest and it was as intent and lustful as I’d imagined mine had been just an instant before.

“Okay?” I asked.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, “Do you know how bloody beautiful you are?”

I wrapped a hand around his neck and fingered the hollow of his throat.

“I was thinking the same about you,” I said, staring at the contrast between coarse and fine; tan and pale; elegant and brawny. I was the stronger one yet he held the balance of power.

“I want to kiss you,” he whispered, “But I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

“We could fool around and not finish,” I suggested, archly, reminding him of Rome.

He smiled.

“That was different: we’d been having sex for days.”

“Do you want that again?”

My jeans were starting to feel tight.

“What, getting away from everything and staying in bed with you for a couple of weeks?”

I stroked his lower lip and he sucked my thumb into his mouth.

“In bed, on the couch, the table, the floor,” I replied, cupping his ass and pulling him against me.

He moaned and I felt the vibrations in the palm of my hand. I wanted him badly, but I also wished to give him what he had missed while I was away: going out to clubs, to the cinema, doing the things friends and lovers did.

“Later,” I murmured into his hair, and he nodded and licked the tip of my thumb before releasing it.

We slid into our coats and I lent him one of my scarves.

“It looks better on you,” I said; the green cashmere matched the flecks of emerald in Elio’s changeling eyes. “You should keep it.”

“Are you sure?” He was obviously pleased.

“I’d give you some of my clothes too but you'd disappear in them.”

“You could lend me one of your sweaters,” he said, “And I could wear it at home.”

“I suppose you got rid of my shirt, after what happened.”

He chewed on his lips and looked away. I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, so I said it was time to go and led him outside.

I proposed to hail a cab, but Elio would have none of it. He had a student travel card and wanted to make use of it.

“We can take the Circle Line, clockwise,” he said.

“I heard that it’s the worst.”

“Nothing’s as bad as the Northern Line. The trains smell of mould and dirty feet.”

As it turned out, we only had to wait five minutes. We got off at Embankment and I was surprised to see that the club was under the arches of the Charing Cross station. There was a sparse and diverse crowd of people outside the blue doors and a few of them wore sequinned shorts and cropped vests, braving the cold weather. We checked our coats and were waved in by a willowy transvestite in stilettos and electric blue fake fur mini-dress.

As soon as we stepped inside we were submerged and enveloped by the throbbing pulse of the music and the stifling heat produced by the heaving sea of bodies swaying inside the vast vaulted room.

The lights were predominantly blue and red and I didn’t know the song that was playing. When I asked Elio, he grinned: “It’s called American Love.”

We got two G&Ts at the bar and pushed through the crowd. We were a few steps from the dance floor when Elio - who was leading the way - was approached by a blond boy who looked about his age. He was tall, well built and conventionally pretty. He whispered something in Elio’s ear and put a hand on his waist. I felt the blood rise to my face, but I didn’t want to appear intrusive so I left them there and went dancing. The unknown song ended and was followed by Madonna’s Into the Groove. I hadn’t danced in a while and it was great to let myself go, eyes closed to bask in the rhythm and avoid the temptation of gazing at Elio and his friend.

Suddenly I felt the warmth of his breath on my neck, “Why did you leave?” he asked. I shrugged and he glared at me, but that wasn’t the place to have a conversation, so he responded with body talk. He’d always been a good dancer but his moves had sometimes been clumsy rather than provocative. Now he was serpentine and allusive, wiggling his ass and circling his hips, glancing at me through his long lashes and the curtain of his long sweat-soaked curls. Three songs later, my top was gone and his shirt was unbuttoned and off one shoulder. I was so hard I had trouble standing up and he was licking the sweat off my neck.

“I need to piss,” I shouted, while Abba sang Voulez-Vous.

“I’m coming with you,” he shouted back.

The toilets were dimly lit, crammed and they reminded me of Dante’s Inferno: some men were using the urinals, but most were either making out or in the midst of one or more sexual acts. It was both repulsive and arousing.

A couple vacated one of the cubicles and we hurried in.

“I really need to piss,” I said, and Elio licked the moisture off his upper lip.

“I want to watch,” he replied, as he unzipped my fly and pulled my pants and boxers down mid-thigh.

“Did you, with the others?” I muttered, trying to keep my balance.

Elio ground his wet crotch against my ass.

“No, no, just, let me,” he pleaded, and my dick jumped into his hand.

“I don’t know if I can,” I said, and nearly shot my load when he pinched my nipple and sucked on my earlobe.

“Please, please,” he begged, and it took all my concentration to push the stream out while he forced my cock down. It should have been unpleasant, but my wires must have been messed up because I loved every second of it.

When I was done, he spun me round and kissed me hard and deep on the mouth. I was about to undo his trousers when someone heckled us and complimented the size of my dick. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. Once out, a couple of guys in full leather gear came on to me and asked if I’d fuck them both. I was too dazed and taken aback to react but Elio pushed them aside and urged them to get lost. His shirt was drenched with sweat and so were his curls, and his eyes looked enormous and feverish in his elfin face. I had half-joked when I said he was lean and mean, but in that moment there was a whiff of the Marseille low-life in his delicate features, the cold-cruel boy with the switchblade in his nervous hands. He was so hot I wanted to strip him naked and worship every inch of him.

Back on the dance-floor, we had lost all control and were all over each other.

After an extended version of Tainted Love, we agreed it was time to head home. Deep in my sex-fog, I put my t-shirt on and buttoned Elio’s shirt; we retrieved our coats and walked to the Strand to find a taxi, because we needed to get home as quickly as possible.

We didn’t say a word the entire journey and even the cabbie didn’t try to engage us in conversation. He was listening to the radio but had turned it down so low it was reduced to unintelligible murmurs and an occasional melody. Elio was looking outside the window and I could sense his tension even though we weren’t touching. I was hyper-aware of his every breath and if anyone had spoken aloud I’d have jumped out of my skin. My body craved Elio’s so intensely it was as if that day and evening had never happened.  The slate was clean again and I had to re-learn him from scratch. I would devote my life to this task, if he only let me.

 

I paid the fare and we walked up the stairs up to my front door is complete silence; we could have been strangers or enemies. My fingers shook a little as I inserted the key inside the lock, but as soon as the door was closed behind us, and before I could turn the lights on, he was on me.

“Want you in my mouth,” he growled, shoving his hand between my legs.

“Same here,” I gasped.

“You’re dying for it.”

I hummed.

“Say it,” he bit my neck.

“Dying to suck you off,” I choked out, “Your cock, your balls, please, I need to, please.”

I didn’t care that I was begging, words didn’t mean a thing unless they got me what I wanted.

“Do it,” he said, and I pushed him against the nearest wall and pulled down his trousers only to find out he wasn’t wearing any underwear.

That whipped me up into a real frenzy: I got down on my knees and buried my face in his crotch, inhaling the scent of sweaty manliness which I could never get enough of.

We were in a similar position as that first morning, but this time Elio’s penis was already hard. I swallowed it down and didn’t care when I choked on it. I hadn’t done this in a long time, but the mechanics of the act soon came back to me. What I had not accounted for was the sensation of drowning in a surfeit of pleasure; it was all happening so fast: we’d only reconnected the night before and here we were, back where we’d started, one fine summer morning in Northern Italy. I was intensely aroused, but also overcome with too many emotions. My eyes were wet and I might have been crying; the room was swirling around me, I could feel it even in the near-darkness which surrounded us. Above me, Elio was keening and mewling and that made me hungrier and more determined. I was gripping his hip with one hand and holding the base of his shaft with the other, and he had all ten fingers in my hair, yanking it to his heart’s content.

It was that pain which kept me from losing it, and I was convinced that he was aware of it.

“Oliver,” he cried, “Yes, god, yes,” and he shot at the back of my mouth and down my throat; he wouldn’t stop convulsing and spurting, and I ate it all up, greedily.

We both collapsed on the floor and I was catching my breath when Elio scooped my cock out of the slit in my boxers and went down on it.

He knew what I liked and was lapping the head as though it was an ice cream, with broad swipes and pointed licks, while his hand stroked me roughly. I was already close and as soon as he sucked on it, I screamed his name and came all over his lips.

 

“This time,” he chuckled, “We definitely made a lot of noise.”

“These brick walls are soundproof; you can scream all you like.”

We were in bed, drinking tonic water and smoking the last cigarette of the day. It was late and we were exhausted, but still too wired to sleep.

“That was fun,” he said, “The club, I mean.”

“Yeah, I really needed that.”

“Why did you leave?”

I handed him the cigarette and sipped my water.

“I didn’t want to be in the way.”

He snorted.

“That was Andreas. We went out on a date, once. He’s Hungarian and plays the violin.”

“He’s pretty,” I said, feeling the tell-tale gnawing of self-doubt, “And young.”

“And very boring,” Elio added. “I couldn’t wait for the date to end. I had other things on my mind.”

“What things?”

“You know what things,” he smiled, and ducked down to kiss my shoulder. “It was the day we met here at the Barbican. I couldn’t stop thinking about you all through the date. I barely remember what was said, except that he was talking about people I didn’t know and fashion brands I didn’t care about. Tonight I wanted to introduce you as my boyfriend, but when I turned round, you’d vanished.”

“Boyfriend, uh?” I beamed and he nudged me, playfully.

“Unless you mind,” he replied.

“I only care about the ‘my’, not what comes after it.”

“Possessive.”

“You have no idea.”

“Oh, I think I do.”

We fooled around a bit then drifted off to sleep. Just before I switched off the night-light, Elio muttered something. I asked him what it was.

“Earlier, I thought I saw someone I know, but maybe I’m wrong,” he replied.

He wasn’t.


	20. Ride a White Swan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Sunday and it's cold outside: what do you think these two will do? Yep, more smut...
> 
> Elio's POV then Oliver's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is a song by T Rex.

I woke up thirsty and with an impellent need to relieve myself. I took care of both problems and when I returned to bed Oliver had shifted to my side and was hugging my pillow. I sat at the edge of the mattress and looked at him: his torso was impossibly broad and muscled and his biceps were as thick as my thighs. He could have been an athlete or a model instead of what he was: an academic who could discuss philosophy and literature and who had published a book on Heraclitus. He had every reason to be vain or at least utterly confident, because in the eyes of the world he was as close to perfection as a human being could get.

I gazed at his face: stubbly, peaceful and rosy, but with violet shadows beneath the eyes. _Il a les yeux cernés_ , a voice inside my head translated; it was maman’s, and it brought back the hurtful memory of my last conversation with her.

“You should not be angry,” she’d said, “Anger is like hate, it’s a waste of time and energy.”

“First, you tell me I should not repress my feelings and now you insist I should do just that.”

“You don’t hate Oliver,” she’d gone straight to the point.

“Yes, I do,” I’d lied, “He treated me like I didn’t matter, but you took his side instead of your own son’s.”

“There are no sides, _piccino_. Life’s not black and white.”

“Sometimes it bloody is,” I’d replied, and slammed the phone down.

She had been right, of course: Oliver’s marriage was over but perhaps we wouldn’t have been together now if he’d not tried to build a life with another person and realised it wasn’t working out. I was suddenly beset by curiosity about the novel Oliver was reading. I walked to the other side of the bed and snatched the book from underneath his pillow. I sat with my back against the headboard and went directly to the last page. If that was a real story then the ending had to be unhappy.

_“And then he told her. Told her that it was as before, that he still loved her, he could never stop loving her, that he’d love her until death.”_

“Elio?” he croaked, his voice thick with sleep and smoke, “Are you crying?”

I had been sniffing quietly in order not to wake him, but as soon as he spoke, I broke down into sobs. He wrapped his arms around me and I pressed my face to his neck. He soothed me and little by little the crisis subsided.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, “Was it a bad dream?”

“I read the end of The Lover,” I replied, and that seemed such a silly notion I started to giggle.

“That bad?” he chuckled.

“I don’t want to spoil it for you.”

“If you don’t tell me, I’ll read it myself.”

“He says that he never stopped loving her, that he’ll love her until death. But they were not together and I was thinking that maybe, that’s why he could love her like that.”

“Maybe you should not let your imagination work on an empty stomach,” he said, caressing my nape and shoulders.

“Always so prosaic,” I chided. “Where is your heart, Oliver?”

“You should know,” he replied, kissing my hair, “And as for the novel, it’s all bullshit. Love is also sharing the everyday, like preparing breakfast and arguing about who forgot to buy the milk.”

“You shouldn’t trust me with grocery shopping.”

“I won’t,” he smiled.

“You are losing a wife and gaining a slob of a boyfriend.”

He snorted.

“Alice never ironed my shirts, if that’s what you’re hinting at. I have always taken care of my things, ever since I left my parents’ house. I’m used to it and I like it that way.”

“Did you mind it when Mafalda took care of your washing?”

He blushed. If he kept being this adorable for our entire life, I was going to die a happy man.

“Yeah, especially after you and I started sleeping together,” he said, “But I didn’t want to offend her or your parents. After all, I was only a guest.”

“If you’d proposed to help her with the housework, she’d have been astonished.”

“That’s because Italian men are spoilt,” he joked, tickling my ribcage.

“I’m only a quarter Italian,” I remonstrated, batting his hands away.

“And which quarter would that be?” he insisted, pulling me on to his lap.

I took advantage of the position and wiggled my ass.

“This one,” I winked, and he burst into laughter.

“And what’s the French part like?”

“Oh, full of savoir-faire and very artistic”

“Flirty and moody, you mean.”

I tugged his hair and he retaliated by flinging me down on the mattress and crawling on top of me.

“What are you going to do now?” he whispered. I slid a hand between our bodies and palmed his crotch. His cock was plumping up and mine was more than half-hard. We’d have taken care of that hadn’t we been once again interrupted by a ringing phone.

“Damn,” he swore, “I should have unplugged it last night.”

“At least it didn’t ring then.”

He chuckled. “I’d have thrown it out of the window.”

“It must be Alice,” I suggested.

“Not at this hour.”  It was nearly twelve, but in New York it was hardly dawn.

The ringing stopped only to restart after a few seconds.

“I better go,” he sighed, and padded towards the living room, naked as a jaybird.

I followed him, taking the blanket with me.

“Hello? Who is this? Jack who? Oh, yes, yes, Elio’s here, why? Would you like to talk to him? Wait, what? Hello?” he stared at the receiver and then at me, dumbfounded.

“Is he always like this?” he asked, “How did he have my number? I am not in the phone book.”

“What did he say?”

“He said his name and asked if you were here then he hung up. Is he keeping tabs on you?”

“No,” I was as puzzled as Oliver, “Sometimes he ignores me even when we are in the same room.”

“Maybe your parents found out about us and called him.”

“They wouldn’t. And Jack would never tell them anything. He doesn’t meddle.”

“But who gave him my number?”

I could think of only one person.

“Did you give it to Vimini? She and Jack’s sister are very close.”

Oliver shook his head.

“And I thought my family was bad,” he joked, “I’m marrying into the mob.”

“Idiot,” It was my turn to blush.

We stared at each other, smiling.

“Would it be too prosaic if I said that I needed the bathroom?” he quipped.

“I’ll prepare the coffee, unless you don’t trust me around _your things_.”

“You are the only one who’s allowed to touch _my things_ ,” he said, batting his eyes at me.

“Who’s flirting now?”

“Who, _moi_?” he mocked.

I admired his ass as he walked away and marvelled once again that it was all mine to do as I pleased.

 

“What would you like to do later?” I asked. The idea that Elio was going back to that junkie-infested slum gave me the creeps, but I didn’t want to push my luck.

“You must have lessons to prepare,” he replied, as he spread a dollop of marmalade on a piece of toast. “I don’t want to interfere with your work.”

“You don’t have to go.”

“I’ll stay until dinner, if that’s okay.”

I poured myself a glass of orange juice and tried to appear nonchalant.

“You could stay even after that.”

He bit his lips and that never bode well.

“I’m not saying I don’t want to, but it’s only been a day and I’m not sure.”

“You are not sure that I will keep my word,” I interjected, “You think that once I go back to the States, I will change my mind.”

He frowned and I hated to have been the cause of it.

“That’s not what I meant, but yes, there’s also that possibility. It’s not like it hasn’t happened before.”

“That was different.”

“Maybe, but you can’t guarantee that it won’t end the same way.”

I touched his hand, stroked his wrist with my thumb.

“Yes, I can,” I replied, “I want to be with you.”

“I have at least three more years in London and you are only here for a few months, until Carey recovers. What are your plans after that?”

I’d thought about it and recognised that there was no other solution.

“I’ll stay here and find another teaching job.”

His mouth opened and closed, like that of a gaping fish.

“Are you serious?”

I brought his hand to my lips and kissed it.

“I’m not letting an ocean come between us. Besides, I always wanted to spend more time in Europe and this is my chance.”

“So you’re using me as an excuse to move here.”

His choice of words made me wince.

“I’m not _using_ you: you are the reason I’m here. I also happen to like London, despite the awful weather, the squalor and the dirt.”

He grinned.

“It’s not all bad,” he said, “And I don’t mind the squalor. It does have a certain animal appeal.” He slipped his middle finger between my lips and I licked its tip.

“It’s like an unmade bed after we’ve had sex on it all night,” he whispered, “Or your mouth tasting of fags, vodka and spunk after I’ve had my way with you.”

I swallowed his finger inside my mouth and teased the underside of it with my tongue. He closed his eyes and threw his head back, baring his throat. I closed my hand around it, softly, just to make him feel it. He was wearing my sweater and nothing else and I could see his erection poking out, the head already glistening.

“My bed – our bed – is a mess,” I said, when my mouth was empty again. He was stroking my face and brushing my hair and his eyes were dark and pensive; there was a grim determination in his gaze and gestures; it made me shake deep inside, as though a part of me was being stimulated, a part which had been neglected all my life and awakened only in his presence.

“Oliver,” he said, and it sounded like an order, “I want to ride you.”

I only just kept it together and managed not to come on the spot or whine like a stuck pig.

He led me back to bed and didn’t allow me to touch him as he prepared himself, so I gripped the headboard and hoped for the best.

“I want you so much,” he moaned as his slick fingers pumped in and out of his body. His cock was hard and slapped against my chest at every thrust. His nipples were pebbled and I wanted them in my mouth, together with his sticky glans, creamy neck and the rest of him.

“This is torture,” I complained, and he gave my erection a firm pull, flicking the slit with his thumb.

“Patience,” he intimated, as my entire body writhed and bucked.

“I need to feel you, please.”

“Here,” he replied, tugging at my chest hair, “Tell me to stop.”

There was again that strange smile on his lips, and the pain he was administering translated into pleasure. I closed my eyes and felt the noise of a blister pack being ripped then he deftly rolled a condom on my dick; before I opened them again, my cockhead had already been sucked inside of him.

I looked into his eyes and he tacitly gave me permission. At first, I didn’t know where to put my hands, because they wanted to be everywhere at once. I caressed his chest and rubbed his nipples, but that wasn’t enough. I pulled him towards me so that I could suck them. In the meantime, he was milking my glans with his sphincter muscles; he knew how sensitive it was and was doing his best to drive me insane. I was devouring his tits and he was squeezing my arms, but his ass was working in a more devious manner, taking what it wanted, but slowly, deliberately.

“Do you like this?” he asked, in a sultry, honeyed tone, “I bet that you are bursting with spunk.”

I let out a low whimper and licked his sternum, his collarbones, the fold of his armpit, while he dug his nails into the meat of my shoulders. It was then that he slid down until he was fully seated and I was engulfed by such tight heat that I feared I might go up in flames.

He circled his hips, “You’re so fucking huge,” he groaned, and I couldn’t draw breath in case he’d stop, “I can feel you in here,” he pressed my hand to his lower belly and his dick jumped. I started fisting it and it was already so drenched it glided like silk.

“I missed this, you, oh god,” he cried, and as he took his pleasure with abandon, I tried to give him more, stroking him the way he liked it, feeling it harden in my hand until Elio seized up and spewed his release all over me, as far as my throat.

I came soon after, arching off the bed and nearly throwing him off me.

“I wasn’t kidding,” he gasped, after I’d pulled out and disposed of the condom. He licked some of his come off my neck and fed it back to me; we kissed for a long while then he explained what he’d meant. “I missed that sensation that you are splitting me in two with your dick,” he said, as I held him against my chest, “I even thought about buying a replica but a dildo doesn’t swell like it’s about to explode.”

“For a moment I thought I was going to pass out.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t do it again then.”

“I’d rather die,” I said, and was being completely honest. The kind of pleasure Elio was giving me was worth any amount of pain; I could never do without it and I had been crazy to ever believe it possible.


	21. Sunday Bloody Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Sunday, both here and there!  
> Elio and Oliver talk and maybe for once they shouldn't.
> 
> Oliver's POV then Elio's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is a song by U2

The rest of the day went far too quickly, as time usually does when one is happy.

Elio insisted I should do some work, so I sat at my desk while he listened to his walkman and transcribed music. When I asked what he was tampering with, he smiled and bit his lips.

“I wish I could play it for you,” he replied.

That gave me an idea.

“If you come and live with me, I’ll buy a piano so you can practise.”

He wasn’t amused.

“Don’t say that,” he said, frowning, “You don’t have to buy me off.”

“Okay, that didn’t come out right. What I meant to say is that I’d like you to have an instrument you could use at home.”

He grinned.

“Like a sex toy?”

“That too, if you like.”

“I’m not Beth,” he said, and when he saw that I was mystified, he explained, “Little Women, Mr Lawrence, the piano?”

“I’m well aware that you are not a shy little girl who needs coaxing out of her shell.”

“Then stop trying to entice me to come here,” he said, “I don’t need the incentive; I just want us to take our time. By the way, you should give me your phone number; I don’t want to have to ask Jack.”

I wrote it on a slip of paper and he read it aloud as though he were trying to commit it to memory. He gave me his and I jotted it down in my notebook.

“You still haven’t told me what you are working on.”

“Mixing a song by Depeche Mode with one of Satie’s pieces,” he replied, with that same impish smile he’s sported that summer afternoon he’d first performed for me on the piano.

“Sounds intriguing,” I said, “Which ones?”

“Shake the Disease and the Gnossienne 3.”

I knew the former but wasn’t sure about the latter.

“I didn’t know you liked Satie.”

“I do, but my student, Mrs Blackwater, absolutely adores him.”

“Are you going to play it for her?”

He snorted a laugh.

“She’d hate what I did with her beloved music. No, this is just for me; and for you, if you really want to listen again to my plunking.”

“You’ll never let me live that down.”

“I’m just kidding. I’ll play it for you someday.”

I didn’t like the idea of having to wait for the occasion to present itself. I had been doing that for too long already. It had been my fault, but I did not intend to repeat the same mistakes.

“We’ll see,” I said, and he gazed at me with curiosity.

Dinner came and I cooked for him again: nothing too fancy, just grilled salmon and a tomato salad. He already looked healthier, less gaunt, but perhaps it was just wishful thinking.

“I should go,” he said, after he’d helped me clear the table.

We’d already discussed this and I didn’t want us to argue, but I also didn’t want to surrender without a proper fight.

“What about a goodnight kiss?”

He raked his fingers through my hair, tousling it so that a lock of it fell over my eyes.

“A kiss,” he put his lips on mine, “Or _a kiss_?” he slid his tongue inside my mouth as our bodies connected and rocked against one another. He was aroused, but I sensed that he was holding back.

“My bed will be empty without you,” I whispered and licked the whorl of his ear.

He shuddered and held me tighter.

“I wish we were already past this,” he said, softly, “Settled down, like a proper couple.”

“I feel like I’ve lived a year in two days,” I replied, and it was true: if I thought of the incident that had happened on Friday night, it seemed to have happened in a remote past; the only tangible proof of its recency was the yellowing mark on Elio’s neck.

“Me too, but once I’m gone you may want to pretend that it was all a dream.”

“The only thing I want right now is for you to stay.”

“Aren’t you tired of me yet?” he smirked.

“Are you?” I was not certain what his answer would be.

He kissed down my neck and along my collarbones.

“I will never be tired of you,” he said, “But if I moved in with you and it didn’t work out, what would we do?”

“You need your space: I get that. I would never cage you in.”

He nipped my shoulder.

“But maybe I would,” he said, in a low, silky tone.

I was thrilled and my body responded accordingly.

“How do you mean?”

Elio grabbed my ass with both his hands and gritted his teeth.

“You know perfectly well what I mean,” he said, “The things I like to do and that you want, that you need from me: I don’t want you to look anywhere else for them.”

I shook my head and was about to remonstrate, but he went on:

“We’ll have to discuss this further, because you haven’t done it before and neither have I.” He shot me a devilish grin, “Oh, I have daydreamed about it and jerked off to it, but I was so angry I didn’t know why I was having those thoughts.”

“What did you do?” I was short of breath and had goose bumps on my arms and neck.

“Give you orders, punish you if you didn’t obey, reward you if you did,” he said, as he played with the hair on my nape. His touch had the usual calming effect.

“You are right,” I sighed, “I want that very much, but it scares me too. Not you, but what I could find out about myself.”  

He nodded and caressed my cheek.

“Maybe you’ll come to the conclusion that you are better off without.”

“I already know that it’s not true.”

“Your dick worked fine when you slept with women and dominated them,” he said. I knew that he was playing devil’s advocate, but it was a bit as though he still didn’t trust me. Instead of vulnerable, I felt colder and more aloof. Perhaps it was the inevitable consequence of our imminent separation, but I suddenly had enough of his jabs and of his moodiness. I concealed my emotions from him and smiled.

“I agree that we should take things slowly,” I said, moving away from him, but with a fake plastic smile and relaxed attitude. “Come on, I’ll get you a taxi.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said, as we gathered up his clean clothes and stuffed them inside his backpack.

“You didn’t,” I replied, patting his back to reassure him.

He was inspecting my face trying to read me, but I was a proficient dissembler when I wanted to be.

With one last kiss, I helped him into the cab then gave the address to the driver and paid him.

“Oliver,” he called after me, “I’ll call you later.”

“Later,” I echoed, and watched the car speed away.

 

It was only nine and I didn’t want to be alone in the same rooms that I had shared with Elio. I toyed with the idea of visiting Will, but I imagined he’d be asleep already. I hadn’t made any friends yet and aside from my colleagues and my publishers, I didn’t know anyone I considered more than an acquaintance.

I could go to the cinema, but I didn’t relish the idea of sitting down and being passive: I needed action. There was only one thing to do, head to the gym. It was open 24/7 for the Barbican residents; I had been given a pass card which granted me access.

After changing into tracksuit bottoms and a faded t-shirt, I grabbed a bottle of water and walked to the Defoe building. I’d never been there on a Sunday evening and I’d imagined it would be deserted; it wasn’t, but there were only a handful of people and none of them was using the treadmills.

I immediately opted for that, since I wanted to be undisturbed and listen to the music on my walkman.

Four songs later, I was drenched in sweat and in need of hydration. I hopped off the treadmill and took a long sip of water.

“I thought you’d go on forever, like the Duracell bunny,” a voice said.

Next to me, a tall, dark-haired young man was wiping the sweat from his face and neck. He had a very straight nose, of the type they call Greek, and a pleasant, olive-skinned face.

“I wish,” I replied, smiling.

“I have seen you here before,” he continued, “And I envy your stamina.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Tim,” he said, holding out his hand. I shook it: his palm was hot and a bit moist.

“Oliver.”

He shot a glance at my ring finger: it was quick but not particularly discreet; I had the impression that he wanted me to notice. I didn’t remember him and I had the uneasy feeling of having been under observation.

“American from where?” he enquired.

“New York.”

“I was there last month for work. Great city, you must miss it.”

“London is amazing too,” I said, thinking of Elio and what he’d said to me earlier.

“Yeah, we can’t complain,” he beamed and I sensed that he was about to ask me a more personal question.

“Listen, I’d like to stay and chat, but I have some work to do.”

His smile didn’t wane.

“I’ll see you around,” he said, and resumed his workout.

As I walked back to my place, I was seized by a profound and inexplicable sadness: I wondered if Elio wanted me to fail, if he secretly wished I’d have a one night stand so that he could push me away. It was absurd and I knew it: he’d told me more than once that he wanted us to be exclusive and that I was the only man he desired. But I had, at least twice, told him that I loved him and he had not reciprocated. There were many explanations for that omission, but none soothed my heart.

 

“Teacher’s pet is back and he’s all shagged out,” Pierre joked, as I flopped down on the sofa like a crinoline-wearing _demoiselle_.

“Shut up,” I grumbled, stealing his beer and taking a swig.

“You were right: he’s fucking gorgeous and those feet... hmmm.”

“Hands off!”

“What about my mouth? I bet I give better head than you.”

I slapped his thigh.

“You are not his type.”

“Sexy and fit is everybody’s type.”

“Not Oliver’s,” I said, and he didn’t insist.

“Yeah, even I could tell that he’s gone on you. Why are you not with him?”

“He’s married.”

“You banged him.”

“That’s different.”

He got up and grabbed another beer from the fridge.

“Not even gonna pretend to understand why or how. If you’ve sucked married man’s dick, you might as well sleep in his bed; unless he kicked you out of it.”

“He asked me to move in with him and he told his wife he wanted a divorce.”

I enjoyed the effect my words had on my friend: Pierre’s eyes almost popped out of their sockets.

“Wow,” he exclaimed, “He really likes your skinny ass.”

“Looks like it.”

“And again I ask: why are you drinking my beer instead of his... stuff?” he winked.

“You’re _dégueulasse_.”

“Still not answering,” he mocked me.

“It’s been two days and I have been mad at him for two years. I can’t just erase them and move on. I have forgiven him, but--”

“But you still think he should pay for what he’s done to you. And you are making him pay.”

“That’s not--”

“It’s none of my business, but if I were you I’d be careful. He’s stunning, gay and single in London.”

“He’s not single.”

“You are here, he’s there: his bed is empty, that’s all I’m saying.”

I lighted a cigarette and blew the smoke in my friend’s eyes.

“Jack called you earlier.”

“What did he want?”

“God knows. I told him you were with Big Feet; I hope it wasn’t a secret.”

I snorted.

“Jack gave me Oliver’s address.”

“He’s very nosy but he also doesn’t give a toss.”

“Knowledge isn’t the same as empathy. How’s Thorsten, by the way?”

He kicked my ankle.

“He’s great and if he asked to move in with him, I’d be out of here in a minute.”

“I don’t like him, but at least he isn’t married.”

“He could have a harem and it wouldn’t matter to me.”

“Just because he’s good in bed,” I said.

“Not good, amazing. He can go for hours and has the most beautiful dick I have ever seen. I bet your Oliver is in the same league.”

I didn’t deny it.

“The moment he takes off his ring, gay men will be all over him.”

One look at me and he was laughing hysterically.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said.


	22. Measure for Measure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio goes to Haggerston and gets some advice.
> 
> Elio's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A+ = A plus tard = Later!  
> Facile = Easy
> 
> The rose I mentioned is from Agatha Christie's Sad Cypress.

 

I had slept in Oliver’s sweater and during the night I must have been too hot: when I awoke to a slice of morning sun peering through the gap in the tattered curtains, the duvet was tangled between my legs. I could still feel the wetness of Oliver’s tongue licking a path from my navel to my dick; the dream wasn’t visual apart from the tender blue of his eyes; it was the weight of a hard, warm body on top of me, the febrile touch of hands and the imprint of biting kisses; but above all, it was our connection: my cock in his mouth, his in mine, the smell of sex as heady as a drug. I was horny and he wasn’t with me because I had rejected his invitation to stay and in the bright light of day it seemed pointless, absurd.

Why should I doubt his word when I had heard him speak to his wife? And what if Pierre was right and my behaviour pushed Oliver away and into the arms of another man? There would be plenty of takers if he were on the market again; one night at Subway and he’d be coming home with a string of potential partners.

The image of a shirtless Oliver being kissed by someone who wasn’t me took care of my erection.

“Bloody idiot,” I swore.

I padded to the bathroom, noticing that Pierre had already left. I had a couple of lectures in the afternoon and a workshop later on, but my morning was free except for the one hour I would spend with Mrs Blackwater. I was looking forward to it, since it would provide a welcome distraction from my self-chastisement and my perennial daydreaming.

The day was luminous and mild, so unlike the previous one that it seemed to belong to a different season. Maybe I’d slept through spring and like some fairytale princess, had awakened to a changed world in which Oliver was already divorced and settled in London. I shook my head and snorted a laugh.

While I prepared coffee and popped the bread into the toaster, I wondered whether it was too early to phone him. Perhaps he was getting ready for work or – even worse – he was still in bed because he had nothing on until the afternoon. I imagined him naked and a little sweaty, his hair dishevelled: I dashed to the bedroom and found the scrap of paper with his number.

On the small table next to the phone was a note from Pierre: _Jack’s friend called. Didn’t want to leave his name. Sounded hot. A+_

I didn’t know any of my cousin’s London-based friends except for Pierre; I remembered that glimpse of dark hair and those high cheekbones that I knew oh-so-well; the previous night, as we’d run to the Strand to catch a cab; half hidden in the shadows of the Charing Cross arches, like the villain in The Third Man minus the heft; that’d be place he’d go, a rat and his favourite sewer. I clenched my teeth and dialled Oliver’s number; I let it ring until the line went dead.

 

I walked to Bishopsgate meaning to catch a bus to Haggerston, but the day was too glorious for public transport. When I got to Hertford Road, I stopped to admire the old gas-meters factory which recently had been a storage facility for a luggage business. On its frontage were the giant blue letters forming that company’s name “Boris Limited”; they were the colour of Oliver’s eyes. It was a dilapidated, deserted building but with an air of mystery; you could have dumped a corpse inside it and no-one would have found it for a long while; I’d never entertained those thoughts before and I knew where they came from.

“Elio, my dear boy,” said Mrs Blackwater's voice, followed by the shrieks of her parakeets.

She was wearing a flowery silk kimono, her silver hair piled up on her head; she was cradling one of her cats in her arms; the animal was gazing up at her with that unblinking stare that reminded me of psychopaths.

“Sit down and have a cup of ginger and fennel tea.”

“Fennel, fennel,” the birds echoed, and for not for the first time I wondered whether they were polyglot and devilishly clever, enough to know the Italian word for fennel, which also meant fag, gay. Me. I loathed the taste of its seeds and maybe the birds knew that too.

“A glass of water would be better,” I replied, glaring at the cage. “It’s sweltering today.”

“The best way to cool down is to have a hot drink,” she insisted, but I wouldn’t be convinced at any cost. The last time I’d accepted a liquorice and peppermint brew which had screwed up my taste buds for hours until I’d washed the taste away with beer.

She had opened the glass doors and while she went to fetch the drinks I went out into the garden, which was a jungle of straggly rose bushes, lavender shrubs invaded by ivy, jasmine and wisteria still bare and sickly, and two giant bay trees that were being patronised by magpies and blackbirds. Cats were lounging in the sun and stretching lazily.

“These are thornless roses,” she said, handing me a chipped tumbler filled to the brim with water, “They have a lovely French name, _Zéphirine Drouhin_ _._ You’ll say it better, my dear.”

I repeated the two words and she beamed at me. Her face was scored by a multitude of wrinkles, but her smile was surprisingly youthful; her pale blue eyes were both innocent and piercing; I was fond of her, perhaps because I was estranged from my parents.

“What have you been doing with yourself?” she asked, crouching down to pet a striped tabby. The cat half-closed his eyes and purred.

I emptied the glass and sighed, remembering how Oliver had used to consume his apricot juice.

“Nothing special,” I lied, “The usual.”

“What’s that on your neck?”

I had completely forgotten about it, and because it was a nice day I wasn’t wearing a scarf, only an unbuttoned polo shirt.

“I was mugged outside my house.”

She asked me to explain and I tried to relate the events without mentioning Oliver, but I should have known better.

“And this very nice man was just passing by? That was very brave of him.”

“He was drunk, so maybe he didn’t think of the risks.”

“I hope you reported the incident to the police.”

I had not even remotely considered it. Gene and his gang might go to jail for a week or two, but they would be out again and make our lives hell.

“I was smashed too, they wouldn’t have believed me.”

“A nice boy like you shouldn’t live in that part of the city,” she shuddered.

“Yes, I have been told.”

“Whoever told you was right. Was it the man who rescued you?”

I nodded.

“So you did talk to him.”

“Briefly,” I replied, flushing. She noticed it but didn’t comment.

“Shall we start?”

“It’s the Mozart today, isn’t it?” she asked.

“The Sonata no. 16, the easy one.”

Her expression indicated she didn’t believe either me or the Austrian composer.

 

One hour and much squawking of parakeets later, Mrs Blackwater’s doubts were vindicated: _facile_ it may have been for Amadeus, but not so for my pupil. She was elated all the same, with some of the relief of a patient after visiting their dentist.

“You make it seem so easy,” she laughed, flexing her bony fingers, “But you should have a piano to practise on.”

She owned an old Danemann grand which she kept in pristine condition. From what I could gather, aside from her pets, it was the only thing she cared about and the sole object not covered with dust.

We’d had this discussion before and she knew how I felt about it.

“That’s another thing I have been told recently.”

“Not by the same man surely?” she quipped.

I blushed again.

“He’s an old friend.”

“Who happened to be outside your house while you were being attacked?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Maybe a cup of strong coffee?” she ventured, and I accepted.

I told her everything – well, almost everything – while she sipped one of her smelly tisanes. I wasn’t sure she approved of homosexuality and infidelity, but for some reason, I imagined she’d be unperturbed.

“I could give you advice,” she said afterwards, “But why would you listen to it? What I will say is that you should call your parents. They must be dying to hear from you and you must be missing them too.”

I nodded, suddenly close to tears.

“A beautiful name,” she concluded, “A Roland for an Oliver was an old-fashioned way to say measure for measure.”

“An eye for an eye.”

“But you don’t want to do that to him, my dear. Think of the future, not of the past.”

 

We crossed paths in the afternoon: I was between lectures and he was coming out of the library. He was holding a copy of Schoenberg’s _Fundamentals of Musical Composition_ and a thick red folder with his name on the cover, written in his elegant cursive.

He was lost in his thoughts and I had time to look at him before he saw me: he was wearing black trousers and a grey blazer over a shirt whose colour matched his eyes. He seemed tired and in a sombre mood, but he wasn’t wearing his ring.

“Hi,” I said, scratching the back of my head, “I called you this morning, but there was no reply.”

He smiled, “I had an early start.”

“I went to Haggerston.”

“The parakeet lady?” he asked, still grinning.

“Do you have time for a coffee?”

“Yes, but not here. Let’s go to the Barbican cafe.”

I wasn’t his student but he obviously cared about what his colleagues thought, which was understandable. The Guildhall’s code of conduct wasn’t a strict one and they were tolerant of homosexuality, but he was only replacing a friend and naturally wished not to cause him any trouble.

The cafe was nearly empty and the lighting inside the Barbican was dim enough to promote intimacy.

We chose a table nestled in a corner behind a large pillar and sat on the same plush settee. Oliver was drinking cappuccino, but I had a camomile tea. He arched his eyebrows and I shrugged my shoulders. “I had more than enough caffeine for today.”

His thigh was brushing against mine and I could smell the cologne on his neck.

I wanted to close my eyes, wrap my arms around him and kiss him everywhere.

“I meant to call you last night,” he said, bringing me back to reality, “But I didn’t want to disturb you.”

He lowered his gaze, fiddled with the plastic spoon.

“You couldn’t disturb me,” I said, and leaned against him, my head resting on his shoulder. It felt heavenly and so very right. “Did you stay up late?”

“I went to the gym.”

“Did you work up a sweat?”

“I was on the treadmill for a while, so yeah.”

I tongued his earlobe, felt his pulse jump.

“I like it when you are all hot and bothered,” I whispered. He put his hand on my hip and stroked it. I wished my jeans could disappear or stop being so tight.

“If you’d stayed,” he let slip, but he immediately apologized, “Sorry, it just, sorry. Anyway, I only did about thirty minutes of it.”

“But you could have gone on for longer.”

“Somebody else said that to me, last night.”

My heart missed a beat or three, but I feigned indifference.

“Who was it?” I nuzzled the underside of his jaw, waited.

“No one, a guy, also on the treadmill,” he said.

“Young, old?”

“About my age, dark hair, that’s all I got.”

“English?”

“Yeah, Tom or Tim, can’t remember.”

I let out the breath I’d been holding but my relief didn’t last long. I sought his eyes and asked him point blank: “Did you like him?”

“Why are we talking about this guy?” he asked, angrily.

“Pierre warned me this would happen, but I didn’t think he meant as he was speaking.”

“That _what_ would happen?”

“He said guys would be all over you as soon as you took off your ring.”

He chuckled, but he wasn’t having fun.

“You don’t think I have a say in the matter?”

“Of course you do, but-”

“But you think that because I cheated on my wife that I’d do the same to you.”

“Not what I said.”

He moved away from me and I wanted to scream.

“Sometimes I think you want me to cheat, so that you’d have another reason to hate me.”

I felt a rush of blood to my head.

“No one’s allowed to touch you but me.”

My voice was hoarse, cracked.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

I stared into his eyes, watched them darken.

“Only I can touch you.”

He moved first, but soon I had my hands in his hair and my tongue in his mouth. I bit him and owned him and when we parted he no longer looked tired and depressed. I made him happy and he did the same for me: why should we be apart? It didn’t make any sense.

“Come to dinner,” he said, caressing my face.

“Shall I bring my toothbrush?”

“I have a spare one with your name on it."

He wrapped his arm around my waist and held me close.

Never let me go, Oliver.


	23. Perfect Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our boys try to eat dinner... twice, but they can't keep their hands off each other.  
> I'm sure at some point they'll get it out of their system. Just kidding ;)
> 
> Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Just a perfect day  
> You made me forget myself  
> I thought I was  
> Someone else, someone good"  
> Perfect Day, Lou Reed

We’d ordered pizza from an Italian restaurant in Goswell Road because Will had told me that he and Frieda used to dine there and that the food was to die for. It turned out one should never trust an Englishman with foreign food and that Italians – even those who are just a quarter Latin - take their cuisine very seriously.

“This isn’t mozzarella and the tomato sauce is too sweet,” Elio groused, picking at his _Margherita_ with disdain.

I was trying to take him seriously, but I was brimming over with a joy that I didn’t want to tamp down.

“Try my _Marinara_ ,” I offered, anticipating his scathing comment. He didn’t disappoint me.

“These are not anchovies and the basil is not fresh. I bet it doesn’t taste of anything.”

“It pretty much tastes like basil” I said, “But if you hate it, I have salmon and cream cheese in the fridge.”

“It’s all fine,” he smiled, “I often eat cheddar on toast even though it’s like melted plastic. Beggars, you know?”

He sipped the _Prosecco_ and let out a sigh of pleasure.

“At least the wine is acceptable,” I joked.

“Very,” he replied, “Nearly as good as champagne.”

“I can’t tell the difference.”

Now I had offended his French side; he pouted and his nose twitched. I adored every one of his expressions.

“One day I will take you to France and give you an education.”

“You think I’m a philistine?”

He bit his bottom lip, pretended to be coy.

“If the shoe fits,” he murmured.

“Mafalda had more faith in my culinary skills than my own boyfriend,” I said, and as soon as that word was out of my mouth, he flushed and I felt it in my guts.

“I have faith in you,” he said in a low, urgent tone, caressing my thigh. I was wearing drawstring bottoms and the worn grey cotton was a flimsy barrier between his skin and mine. I downed my glass of wine in one gulp.

“I want you to trust me,” I said, splaying my legs to give him better access, “To know that there’s nothing, absolutely nothing that I wouldn’t-”

He pressed his palm against my crotch; it was a soft touch, but my dick responded to it and in no time I was hard and tenting the front of my pants.

“Let’s move to the couch,” he said, and we did. He sat down and told me to stand in front of him. He was wearing my blue shirt unbuttoned and tight black briefs.

“I need you,” he murmured and I hummed; my tongue felt swollen, my heart was at the back of my throat. He pulled me to him, bent his head and lapped at my dick through the fabric. He wasn’t teasing: he opened his mouth and used the broad of his tongue to massage the shaft. I buried my hands in his curls in order to stay upright.

“I want to lick your balls,” he said, and he shoved my pants down to my knees. He took me in hand and tugged at my cock so that he could get at my sac. Elio was the only person who’d wanted to do that and after our first kiss, he’d groped me there. I’d enjoyed it so much it had scared me. Back then, he’d liked to get them really wet then suck the flesh behind them until I’d begged him to make me come.

And now he was eating them up, grunting, breathing trough his nose, clutching my dick with one hand and the back of my thigh with the other. I had started to tremble and when his fingers sought the cleft of my ass, my knees buckled.

He immediately let go and, after ridding me of my pants, he made me sit down by his side.

“We can slow down,” he smiled, and caressed my face and my neck.

“Can we?” I stared at the front of his briefs, wanting to touch him; waiting.

“No,” he replied, arching his back so that the shirt opened further, the edges just skimming his nipples. I’d forgotten my own urgency and only wanted to give him pleasure. He parted his legs and rolled his hips; when I cupped his crotch, the fabric was soaked; a moment later, we were moaning into each other mouths. He was letting me, I thought, allowing me to show him what he did to me, not only here in the present, but in my memory and imagination. I removed my top and his briefs, but let him keep his shirt – my shirt – since it smelled of the two of us now and because I wished to be more vulnerable, utterly naked.

I covered him in kisses from head to foot, sucking his toes in belated reciprocation. Adoration veered away from sexual desire, but it swung back to it when he ordered me to lick the palm of his hand; as I complied, he tousled my hair in that way he had which always made my dick stand up straight.

“I’m dying to fuck you,” he hissed, “But we need, hmm, oh god, we really need to come.”

He climbed on top of me, straddled my thighs, and gathered both our lengths in his spit-slicked hand. The silkiness of his penis, the gorgeous slide and rub of the two cock-heads, the unrelenting pressure of his fingers were delicious, but it was the look in his eyes which pushed me over the edge: there was love and hunger and acceptance. I came first and he soon after, spurting hotly on my chest and neck, which he cleaned up with his lips and tongue; he did that repeatedly, kissing me deeply, sharing the mixture of our semen.

 

“So this is what happens when you don’t like pizza,” I joked, later, “Had I known, I’d have bought some pre-packaged shit from the corner shop.”

We were making sandwiches like I’d proposed earlier – salmon and cream cheese – and enjoying the quiet after the storm.

“This is what happens when you wear see-through bottoms with no underwear,” he chuckled, “You are such a big tease.”

“They’re just ordinary pants.”

“Don’t tell me you go to the gym in those.”

“I might have.”

He stopped mid-gesture, looked as though about to say something then resumed spreading cheese over a sliced baguette.

“I never go out without underwear,” I said, wishing to reassure him. He shook his head and seemed annoyed.

“You are free to do as you like,” he sighed, “I don’t know where this jealousy is coming from. I never used to worry back then. When I believed you were sleeping with all of Moscazzano and half of Crema, it turned me on rather than bothered me.”

That was news to me. Not entirely pleasant news.

“You wouldn’t have minded?”

I turned my back on him to grab a bottle of water from the fridge.

“Not at the time. But that was before we got together.”

“And after that?” I still refused to look at him. He came up behind me and embraced me tightly.

“I never had to worry,” he said, burying his face between my shoulder-blades, “We were always together.”

I covered his hands with mine. There was something I wanted to say and it was easier if he wasn’t in front of me while I said it.

“As long as we trust and don’t hurt each other, I don’t mind if you are controlling.”

We’d already spoken about this, but only vaguely, never going into detail. His heart was thumping and so was mine.

“You mean that?” he whispered, “You said you were afraid.”

“Yes, but that’s exciting too; the fear, I mean. It would be a safe space where it’s only the two of us and nobody else is allowed. We could---play.”

“Do you really want this?”

“Only if you want it too,” I replied, silently praying that he’d agree.

He released me then forced me to turn round and face him. He was red-cheeked and his eyes shone.

“It drives me crazy to just imagine what it would be like,” he said, with a wicked grin, “Playing with you, watching you surrender. My will and yours, no tools required.”

I was hypnotised by his words, his self-assurance.

“Yes,” I replied, feeling hot and cold all over.

“But first you should explain to me,” he put his hands on my shoulders and squeezed lightly, “Not out of curiosity, but just so I can fully _know_ you.”

“You know me better than anybody else.”

His fingers dug into my muscles. I wanted to melt into him.

“There are questions I would like to ask,” he insisted, “And it’d please me if you answered them.”

“And if I didn’t?”

He decreased the pressure of his grasp.

“It’s not blackmail, Oliver. This,” he indicated the two of us. “This is not a game. I want to be with you no matter what. The rest is just window-dressing.”

“Alright,” I smiled and he smiled back. “And now let’s eat because I’m starving.”

 

The evening was mild with a gentle breeze and the sun was setting behind the steeple of St. Giles, limning it in fire and gold.

We had brought our food and drinks outside since, as Elio put it, this might be all the summer London would get and we should take advantage of it.

The impromptu picnic reminded me of Italy, and the splashing of water in the distance only added to the similarity.

“This, this,” he enthused, as he devoured his second sandwich, “is like Lou Reed’s Perfect Day.”

“You are already good; you don’t need to think you’re someone else.”

He giggled like a child. It was infectious.

“I’m not that good,” he said, after a while.

We were drinking the second bottle of white wine, since neither of us had to wake up early in the morning. I was teaching a class at eleven and he had a workshop at two in the afternoon.

“Why do you say that?”

“Mrs Blackwater thinks that I should call my parents.”

“She’s right. I didn’t want to be the one to suggest it, since I’m the guilty party in this situation.”

“Maybe I’ll go home for the bank holiday. Like you.”

“Home is not New York.”

He leaned closer to kiss my neck.

“Your parents would be so happy to see you.”

“What about yours, will you see them when you go back?”

I snorted.

“Not if I can help it.”

“I don’t get it,” he said, placing his bare foot on top of mine. “You said you parents haven’t provided for you since college yet you cared enough about them to marry a girl they approved of.”

“Is this one of the questions?”

He nodded and curled his toes in a sort of caress. I drank more wine and stared into the distance. The sky was indigo streaked with orange; the church clock chimed. It was almost unreal, like a poem by Tennyson or Keats.

“I was always a disappointment to them. I should have studied something solid like finance or law, but I chose philosophy instead. My father hates Europe and what it stands for: he thinks it’s stale and corrupt, that’s it’s had its day and is taking too long to die.”

“Does your mother agree?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t know what she thinks. We talk at, rather than with each other. She and my dad are together because they are supposed to be. I have no idea if she loves him. She has her charities, her friends; she goes to temple, she gossips, sometimes she drinks a bit too much.”

“You must have felt trapped.”

“All the time, which is why I preferred to go my way and earn my own money.”

“Playing poker,” he nudged me in the ribs.

“Yeah, among other things,” I replied. That would have been my cue to tell him about Flynn, but I wasn’t ready yet. In hindsight, my behaviour seemed so petty and our friendship so brief and unimportant that I was almost ashamed to talk about it; it was a secret I had kept for so many years and just by speaking of it I was afraid to deprive it of its meaning.

“It was brave of you, considering how young you were.”

“Not brave, just stubborn.”

He smiled and shook his head.

“The same can be said about me then.”

“I’ve got nothing on you,” I quipped, and he pinched my side. I tickled him and he retaliated; we stopped only when he upset the wine bottle and I caught it in the nick of time. Now that I was relaxed, he moved in for the kill.

“See, this is what I don’t understand: if you were so eager to escape their clutches why would you want to be trapped again?”

“You mean my marriage?”

“I mean us.”

“It’s not the same.”

I laughed nervously, wishing to make light of the contradiction which was the crux of my nature.

“Please don’t do that,” he said, taking my face in his hands and staring into my eyes, “Don’t belittle what you are.”

“I’ve disappointed you already,” I bit my tongue. I hadn’t meant to let that slip.

He brushed my lips with his, a barely-there touch.

“You could only do that by leaving me again.”

“That I’ll never do,” I whispered.

Elio stroked my cheek, my jaw, my neck then kissed them, one by one.

“I love you, Oliver,” he said when his mouth was again on mine, “So much that I can hardly stand it.”

He was so close I couldn’t see anything else; he’d become my entire world.


	24. Happy Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are having a lot of smutty fun.  
> Enjoy the calm before the storm...
> 
> Elio's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have just realised that Oliver got married more or less when Armie did. It wasn't intentional, it just suited my purposes (because of the late May bank holiday when Oliver is supposed to go home to celebrate his anniversary).  
> Coincidences abound...

I was smashed when I dragged him back inside, into his room, his bed, but sober enough to know what I was doing and what he wanted, which was what I wanted too. It was an unspoken certainty, but his eyes and his smile had been as eloquent as words. He’d removed his clothes and climbed on the bed, his leaking dick hard as rock. I was still in his shirt and nothing else; I stood at the foot of the bed squeezing the root of my cock, because I was half gone only with looking at him. I swore and manhandled him into position: on all-fours, braced on his forearms so that I could enter him from behind, one foot on the floor and the other on the mattress for leverage.

“I promised,” I said, slapping the back of his thigh.

“What,” he was panting like he’d run a mile.

I ducked down and pressed my face into his ass.

“Oh fuck,” he groaned, “Yes, yes, yes,” but then he stifled his moans.

“Let go or I’ll stop,” I said, firmly, and went back to licking his rim.

He shouted my name and a string of profanities which made me smile and spurred me on.

After a while, I slicked my fingers with KY and inserted two at once, pumping in and out, roughly. Oliver was writhing and his skin was shiny with sweat. I stroked his back and admired his broad shoulders, recalling when I’d wanted to own them, to be what he was so that perhaps I would cease craving him so much. I no longer wanted to be him; it was immensely more satisfying to possess him like this and be together, inseparable like conjoined twins, like two sides of the same coin,

When I slotted a third finger in, his hips jolted and he started begging for my dick.

“Ask me again,” I said, between grunts of ecstasy, “I told you, hmm, what I’d do.” I spanked the crease of his glute, sharply. “The first night,” I smacked him again, on the other side. I could feel that he was close and I was dying to be inside him.

“Fuck me, have me, do what you fucking want with me,” he cried out; he was getting desperate, but I knew that once he’d given me what I asked, his climax would be more intense and gratifying.

“Look at me,” I urged. He turned and I caught a glimpse of dark, hooded eyes and a flushed cheek. At first, nothing happened but eventually he took in my position and whined, deep in his throat. His muscles clenched around my fingers, his hole fluttering like a trapped butterfly. When he spoke his voice was hoarse, but not hesitant.

“Mount me, Elio,” he said.

In a blur, I rolled on a condom and ploughed into him. I grasped his hips and pulled him towards me: I’d never been so deep inside him. I felt him grind down, his moans and cries matching mine, his buttocks embedded in my groin.

I made him take it, driving into him fast and vicious, clawing at his flesh for dear life. Every hit grazed his sweet spot; not a clumsy jab, but a tantalising drag of my glans across it, again and again and again, until his body was shaking and his skin covered in goose-bumps. I wouldn’t relent and rammed into him, eyes wide open and tongue sticking out.

When I reached around and brushed the head of his dick, he shot up and impaled himself on my length.

“I’m going to, oh god, god,” he panted, and then he shot his load, clenching all around me and milking me dry.

I had the presence of mind to pull out and remove my condom before I collapsed on the bed by his side.

“Your hair’s wet,” I said, combing my fingers through it and revelling in the effect that my gesture had on Oliver: he closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.

“You kept your promise,” he whispered, “You ruined me.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not yet, but it will.”

I kissed his eyelids, the bridge of his nose, the crest of his cheekbones.

“It was worth it,” I said.

“Every time is more and more--- it’s incredible,” he replied; his voice was low, sensual.

“I wish there was nothing between us, just your skin and mine,” I countered.

Ever since I’d been in London I’d been very careful and I’d been tested recently at a Soho clinic. I trusted Oliver, but it was no longer enough.

“Are you saying what I think you are saying?”

I bit his chin and he laughed.

“I swear that if you give me that line again-”

“Only want to make sure we are on the same page.”

“I’m okay and I am sure you are too, but I think we should get tested as soon as possible.”

He caressed my face with delicate fingers.

“It’s a big commitment,” he said, “Are you sure?”

“Sure that I want to be with you only, forsaking all others,” I replied, “And you, will you not fall into temptation and visit the gym wearing those fuck-me pants?”

He rolled his eyes. I knew he was provoking me on purpose.

“They are only drawstring sweatpants.”

“And I could see your cock, clear as day.”

“Only because I was hard.”

“Who tells me you wouldn’t be.”

 I yanked the short hairs at his nape.

“Okay, okay,” he conceded, smiling broadly. “I’ll wear them only for you.”

“You looked so sexy in them. Tracksuit bottoms and a big dick is the perfect combination. Don’t even have to fish it out.”

“If you’d continued, I’d have come in them.”

“You know that I would have licked your pants clean, right?”

He squirmed.

“I can’t be getting hard again.”

“And your balls too, because your prick would have drooled all over them,” I whispered, “Licked and sucked them, to make sure they were really clean, not a trace of spunk to be found.”

“Stop talking,” he said through gritted teeth.

“There’s abundance here,” I joked, palming his swelling sex. It was sticky and warm and corded with veins. “Hmm, I really love cock,” I sighed.

Oliver chuckled and kissed me on the lips: it was almost chaste with only a hint of tongue.

“You sure do,” he agreed, sarcastic with a tinge of bitterness.

“What do you say about getting tested? There’s a clinic I know--”

He closed his eyes and within my fingers his penis softened.

“Maybe we should wait until I come back from the States and you return from Italy. It’s only a couple of weeks anyway.”

“More like three,” I said, “Have you changed your tickets?”

“I phoned Thomas Cook this morning: it’s all been taken care of. You should hurry up if you don’t want to spend a fortune.”

“I have an unrestricted ticket, it’s only a matter of choosing a return flight,” I explained.

“I wish I could come to Italy with you.”

His hand covered mine and our fingers interlocked; with slow determination, like on the afternoon of our first kiss, he moved it from his groin, pulling it up to his chest, pressing it to his heart.

“I could wait,” I said, “And go with you at the end of the month, on the second bank holiday.”

We needed time together, alone: at the end of May my parents would still be in Milan and I could take Oliver to the villa; we could parade around in the nude, if we wanted to. It was usually already hot by then and even if it was stormy – which was rare but not unheard of - we could create our own entertainment.

His pulse accelerated.

“Would you, really?”

I kissed his mouth in lieu of replying and there was nothing restrained about this embrace: he took me in his arms and there wasn’t a part of me that wasn’t touching him.

“And if I remember correctly, it will be your birthday too,” I whispered, as he nuzzled my cheek.

“I thought you’d forgotten,” he was smiling, “I’m too old to celebrate anyway.”

“You are not too old to have a little party with me in the attic.”

“Will there be peaches?”

I nipped his neck and he burst into laughter.

“May is too early for peaches,” I pouted, causing him to laugh even harder.

“What fruit would you like to desecrate this time?”

What could I say, he’d walked right into that one.

“I think I’ve just done that,” I replied, grabbing a handful of pert ass.

“You don’t have to look so smug.”

“ _Praecoquum_ ,” I said, and my hand migrated back to his crotch.

We were grinning like idiots now, unable to control our happiness.

“That’s what you were thinking about when your dad and I talked etymology.”

“It may have crossed my mind.”

“Well something certainly got cross,” he joked, as he fondled my dick.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“At that point, I still believed you were all innocence and light.”

“I didn’t fool you for long.”

He whispered something in my ear and I whispered back: lazy kisses, tender words, the brush of hair and flesh; we fell asleep like that, wrapped into one another, lost to the world.

 

We had agreed that I would wait until the week-end to move in with Oliver: I had to find someone to replace me or at least help Pierre with the search for a new flat sharer. I didn’t want to cause him trouble, especially now that my grant allowed me to pay the bills.

Oliver had suggested he could pay my share, but I told him that it wouldn’t do. The last thing we needed was money to come between us. I didn’t have much life experience yet but I had learned that what money touches, money ruins.

Many of maman’s friends had resented her when she’d inherited the villa and some had been downright catty. My parents’ political stance was seen as hypocritical because of their wealth and my dad had had his share of heated discussions with guests who had come for ‘dinner drudgery’ and had ended up quoting Marx and Bertrand Russell with more than a hint of spite.

One had even told dad that he was like Oscar Wilde, who had defended socialism while being the most dreadful snob. There had been no witty repartee that evening and I had wondered why dad had been insulted by an accusation so grossly unfounded.

It had stayed with me and I didn’t want us to fall into that trap.

We had also decided that until Oliver was teaching at the Guildhall, we would not interact there unless it was for academic purposes. Oliver was going to need references to look for a new job and having a tryst with a student might be frowned upon, no matter how liberal the university claimed to be.

When I’d said the word ‘tryst’, Oliver had glared at me.

“Like you never thought about it,” I said, ogling his chest as he slid on a pearl-grey shirt, “About bending me over the desk, shoving my jeans down and banging me into next week.”

“The thought never crossed my mind,” he replied, his lips curved into a half-grin.

“Or maybe you’d prefer to suck me off while I practise on the piano.”

I kneeled up on the bed and helped him button his shirt.

“I will be late,” he protested.

“Which is why I’m giving you a hand,” I said, with wide-eyed innocence.

“You are naked and reeking of sweat.”

“Not in the least tempting.”

I stroked his chest as if to iron away any imaginary wrinkle in the fabric.

“Step back, Satan,” he cried and as I was about to climb all over him, he sprinted out of the bedroom.

“You’ll have to come back for your shoes,” I shouted, but he had predicted my moves and taken a pair with him when he’d gone to prepare breakfast.

When he was ready to leave, he came back for a kiss.

“I left you a set of keys by the phone,” he said, “You can come and go as you please.”

I wanted to mess him up, but I took pity on him and only licked into his mouth; he was too beautiful, like a work of art which had to be contemplated from a distance. And he was good too, better than me.


	25. The Iceman Cometh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The drama starts now! This is a set-up chapter for what's to come.
> 
> Oliver's POV then Elio's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, let me thank you for being so lovely and supportive and cleverer than moi.
> 
> Secondly: well, I posted a chapter called Happy Together and two minutes later our boys were indeed happy together. I like this sort of serendipity.
> 
> Thirdly: The title is from a Eugene O'Neill play.

 

The day went by in a sort of fog: on the outside I was the serious professor who answered every question with a sympathetic yet detached smile, on the inside a man who’d spent the evening and part of the night having acrobatic sex with the love of his life. I hurt in places I could barely name. It was a kind of throbbing, like that of muscles after a strenuous workout, only more sensual. Every time I sat down, I felt the ache spread to my groin and lower abdomen, keeping me in a constant state of semi-arousal. The back of my thighs was slightly sore too, ditto for my buttocks, which Elio had pinched and smacked with abandon.

I tried not to think about it, but it wasn’t easy: I was finally about to live the life I’d secretly dreamed about, with the man I adored and who – at least for now – reciprocated my feelings. It was a lot to metabolise and my Jewish side was shaking its fatalistic head, wondering if it would last or - more likely - end in tears.

Since we had agreed to avoid one another, I had managed not to bump into Elio; I thought I caught a glimpse of him round the corner from the library, but it was only a blurry impression of dark curls and striped t-shirt.

During the lunch-break, I decided to go see the current Barbican exhibition: it was called Art and Time and it had been first shown at the Palais des Beaux-Arts in Brussels.

There were paintings I had long desired to see, such as Dali’s Crucifixion and Metzinger’s Blue Bird. Elio had already been and I didn’t want to force him to see it twice. It was another glorious sunny day and the gallery was half-empty; I had a Teacher pass so I went straight in and was reading the Dimensionist Manifesto when I felt the presence of a body behind me. It was a man and he was standing too close for comfort. I was about to move when he took a step to the side.

“They were all so terribly earnest,” he said, sounding amused, “It’s rather endearing.” Colouring his impeccable English was a faint Italian accent. I wouldn’t have noticed if it hadn’t been for the particular situation I was in. I turned to look at him and saw a slender young man in his early twenties, dark haired, green-eyed and with a sardonic expression on his angular features. Handsome but aware of his beauty and of the power that it afforded him: I couldn’t stand that sort of vanity, especially not in a man.

“It’s very easy to patronise passion from a safe distance,” I said. I hadn’t meant to respond so curtly, but I was irritated. I had come to gaze in wonder at these masterpieces and I felt as though I was being derided for my interest. My father would have behaved like this man, albeit for different reasons. The last thing I wanted was to spend time in the company of someone who delighted in spoiling other people’s pleasures.

“I didn’t mean to laugh at you,” he said, but the mischievous glint in his eyes said otherwise.

“And I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m short of time and I wasn’t planning to spend it talking to you.”

He laughed and shook his head.

“You are wasting your time on Elio,” he said, “He’s a great actor and can pretend to be anything you want him to be. I have known him since we were kids.” He enunciated the next words carefully, “Fickle, capricious, inconstant.”

I was riveted to the spot.

He took it as encouragement.

“Do you know that aria from Rigoletto, _La donna è mobile_? Flighty like a feather in the wind: that’s our Elio.”

 _Our Elio_ , I repeated to myself, _our Elio_.

“You are not what I'd expected,” he added, “Jack was right. Did you fuck him?”

The difference in tone was so sudden that it startled me into incoherence.

“What?”

“Jack never seemed to be the type, but I’ve heard that he’s not as asexual as I thought,” he chuckled.

“I wouldn’t know and anyway who are you?”

He pondered my question for a moment then he shrugged.

“Elio will tell you,” he replied, staring me straight in the eye, “And when he does, ask him why he never mentioned me before. Look him in the eye when he replies, same as I am doing now with you.”

I couldn’t say anything or look away: it was like being hypnotised by a snake charmer. In the end, it was he who broke the impasse.

“Have to go,” he said, and without introducing himself or saying goodbye, he was gone.

After this bizarre interlude, I lost all interest in the paintings and sculptures; everything seemed dead and slightly preposterous. Out of pure stubbornness, I searched for the paintings I’d come to admire, but my heart wasn’t into it.

I went back to work, wishing that I’d never set foot into that gallery.

 

“I knew it! You can’t stay away from Big Feet and who can blame you?” Pierre said as soon as he saw me.

I’d gone home to fetch my sheet music folder and a couple of books, but I had not counted on him being there.

“Why are you here?”

“I was on my way to the tube.”

“Don’t let me stop you.”

He followed me to my room.

“How was it then? I want all the juicy details,” he said, flopping down on my bed. “Speaking of juices-”

I made a noise of disgust.

“Oh pleaaase,” he mocked, “Have we met? I love spunk, but you - my dear Miss Demeanour - you are really crazy for it.”

“Shut up and go away.”

“I will if you tell me what you did.”

“It’s private.”

He cackled.

“I have seen you naked. I’ve almost seen Oliver naked too.”

The back of my neck started to itch.

“Don’t talk about him that way. I don’t,” I cleared my throat, scratched my nape, “He’s not like the other guys I slept with.”

“Yes, I know he’s Mr Right, but he looks like a Hollywood star and maybe I just want a bit of that gold dust.”

I scowled at him then rummaged inside the desk drawers in search of my notebook.

“It’s never going to happen,” I muttered.

“Sharing is caring,” he insisted.

“Goddam fuck,” I cursed when one of the drawers got stuck. I pulled it out and tipped its contents on to the floor. The notebook wasn’t there. For a moment I feared I’d left it at Oliver’s before I remembered that I’d put it in the backpack with the clean clothes. I unzipped the external pocket and, yes, it was there. I heaved a sigh of relief: it contained –among other things - all my notes about the piece I’d been composing and which was part of the workshop. I never misplaced it but these were strange days.

I felt Pierre’s eyes on me.

“You are _really_ gone on this guy,” he whistled.

“Didn’t I fucking say?”

“Everybody says that all the time.”

“You know our story.”

“Proper Disney fairytale with a happy ending,” he smirked.

“With the evil gay friend trying to bugger the prince,” I slapped his arm.

“If Big Feet’s the prince, does that mean that you are the princess?”

I stuck my tongue out, gave him the two finger salute.

“If you love somebody set them free, or he’ll get bored and go back to his wife.”

“You said I should move in with him.”

He stood up and checked his appearance in the closet mirror.

“I didn’t say you should be his bodyguard,” he said, and his reflection winked at me, “You haven’t got the goods anyway.”

I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of disabusing him.

“We agreed I would wait until the end of the week,” I said, shoving the books and folders into the Invicta. “I’ll find someone who can pay the bills.”

“Or I could go stay with Thorsten,” he replied, but I could see that underneath the bluster, he was sorry that I was leaving.

“You’re better off here,” I said, “You know how he is.”

Thorsten would be all over Pierre for a few days, even a week, and then he would get bored and kick him out. Pierre probably thought Oliver was the same, but I was sure that they couldn’t have been more different.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” he replied, pretending that he didn’t care even though we both knew he did; not half as much as I would have in his place, but enough for his shallower nature.

“Anyone at the LSE in need of a flat-share and loaded?”

“If they are loaded they won’t come to Old Street,” he chuckled, “By the way, you know that Spike’s been arrested for dealing outside Central Foundation Boys’ School?”

“What’s that, a secondary?”

“Eleven to eighteen-year-olds,” he said, “Some of the older ones are very pretty.”

“Dirty old man,” I joked, waiting for it to backfire.

“Excuse me, how old were you when you seduced Big Feet?”

I grabbed him by his t-shirt and pulled him towards the door.

“I did not seduce him, and now get out of here! I’ll see you later or maybe not.”

“Maybe you’ll be drinking some more of that juice.”

“Out!” I shouted and heard his laughter ring out until the front door opened and closed and I was alone.

 

I was going to the library when I spotted Oliver, but since I’d promised to keep away I stopped to chat with a group of friends about the post London-marathon party that was going to be held on the top floor members’ room at the Barbican. I’d initially intended to go with Andreas but now I didn’t know what to do: Oliver would be there, because the teachers were supposed to show up, and I wondered if I would be able to ignore him. There was going to be an open bar, so I’d get drunk and want to make love to him. We’d have to talk about it and in the meantime he was gone and I wished I’d at least said hello.

Later, I was getting a cup of weak coffee from the vending machine when I felt a touch on my shoulder. The whiff of cologne on his wrist made me salivate.

“Professor,” I whispered, without turning. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed his silver cufflink and the fine hairs on the back of his hand: I wished I could bend down and suck his thumb into my mouth.

“Perlman,” he said, “Do you have a minute?”

I nodded and followed him into a supply room. It had a bolt on the inside and he flicked it shut.

“I thought you said,” I started, but was silenced by the expression on his face. He was paler than usual and there were lines of tension between his brows.

“What’s wrong?”

He pressed his lips together and stared at me.

“You haven’t booked your flights yet,” he said.

“No, I was thinking of going tomorrow morning. My travel agents are in Ludgate Hill. If I sleep over at your place, I can walk there,” I was babbling, “Why?” I wondered whether I’d handled him too roughly the previous night, but I didn’t dare ask him. In his dark tailored suit, he looked adult and severe, while I, in baggy trousers and a loose t-shirt, was the picture of gangly post-adolescence.

“No reason,” he said, “We didn’t really talk about it.”

“What is there to discuss unless you’ve changed your mind?”

I was getting angry and he sensed it because he moved closer and caressed my cheek.

“I haven’t,” he murmured, “I’ll see you later then? Maybe I’ll go to the gym after work, but you have your keys so make yourself at home.”

“No see-through pants?”

He giggled.

“I promised, didn’t I?” he said, “And I intend to keep all my promises.”

A peck on the lips, a whispered endearment, a quirked smile and he was gone.

I couldn’t fathom what was behind Oliver’s odd behaviour, but I was determined to find out.


	26. Body Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things of a smutty nature happen in the bathroom and Elio finds a surprise at home.
> 
> Oliver's POV then Elio's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Body Heat is a remake of Double Indemnity and is the sexiest film noir ever made (imho)
> 
> Il tuo amico è andato dal suo boyfriend - your friend went to his boyfriend's

 

“You really are like the Duracell bunny,” the man said, “Your stamina is something else.”

It was Tom or Tim from Sunday night: he was wearing only a pair of jogging pants and he was towelling his hair dry. His chest was toned with well-defined muscles and hairier than mine. Had I been single I may have given him a try, but his body didn’t spark in me a fraction of the frenzy that a glimpse of Elio’s collarbone was capable of igniting. Perhaps I was like one those Victorian gentlemen who were turned on by the bluish flesh of a wrist or the slender line of an ankle. Like them, I perpetually wanted more yet after I’d got it, after I’d licked Elio clean, I’d still be undone by the sight of his delicate nape or by the sprinkle of freckles on the bridge of his nose.

I smiled at him, said nothing.

“Since we are both heading out, would you,” he seemed embarrassed, “We could get a drink, if you are not in a hurry.”

Even though I’d seen it coming, I was left speechless for a moment.

“Thanks, but I can’t,” I said, more rashly than I’d intended. “Someone’s waiting for me.”

“Of course,” he said, dabbing at his pectorals with the towel, “There had to be someone.” He gave me the once over, not lewdly but openly admiring the view.

“I don’t know about that, but yes, there is.”

He looked around and seeing that no one was within hearing shot,

“But it is a he not a she, am I right?” he asked.

It was none of his business, but I had nothing to be ashamed of.

“Yeah, you are,” I replied, and was already walking away when he called after me.

“If you ever need a friend, you know where to find me.”

I raised my hand and waved at him.

As soon as I was out the door, I’d already forgotten about him.

 

I opened the front door and was greeted by the notes of Bach’s Goldberg Variations. My first thought was that Elio was the performer, that he’d recorded himself and brought me a cassette which he was now playing on my stereo system. It was only when I heard his trademark mutterings that I recognised Gould’s artistry. Elio was lying down on the sofa, head thrown back, eyes closed, lips parted: he was so peaceful, so blissfully unaware of his surroundings that I didn’t have the heart to disturb him.

I tiptoed to the bathroom where I intended to take a shower. I hadn’t washed at the gym because I was in a hurry to see Elio. I shed my clothes and tossed them in the laundry basket then walked into the shower.  I had struck lucky with this apartment, since I'd been informed that a one-bedroom in London seldom had spacious bathrooms.

The first jet of hot water was a balm on my overworked muscles: I shut my eyes and let it sluice down the front of my body. I had left the door ajar so that I could listen to the music, and the combined sounds brought me to the _orle_ of sleep.

“Can I join you?”

A naked Elio was standing outside, a shy smile on his lips; a study in uncertainty.

I nodded and stepped aside to make room for him.

He flung his arms around my neck and I ran my hands down his back.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he whispered, licking the droplets which had gathered inside the shell of my ear.

“You looked so relaxed; I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“But I wanted to smell you,” he complained, rubbing circles on my chest with his open palms. “You know how I love it when you are sweaty.”

“Next time, I promise.”

“And you always keep your promises.”

Our gazes met, the water pouring down between us, an insubstantial wall: his curls were plastered to his forehead and he seemed at once fragile and eternal.

“Let me wash you,” I said, meaning _I’d do anything for you_.

“You need it more than I do.”

Killer smile, languid hazel eyes: he’d already switched to this other version of himself; a young man with a hidden past that I knew nothing about.

It seemed ridiculous that a boy of twenty who’d grown up in a bourgeois environment and who’d never been with a man before me could have a past worthy of concealment.

“Gonna scrub you clean,” he said, squeezing a dollop of shower gel on to my sponge.  When he pressed it to my belly, I was already hard. His hand travelled southward and traced my inguinal crease.

“Come here,” I growled, pushing him against the tiles. Against my upper thigh, his dick was plump and hot. His lips were the colour of ripe strawberries and his tongue darted out to lap at the water; at the same time, he raised his hands up in surrender. His eyes were the colour of a forest at twilight. I wanted to devour him and be devoured, enslave him and be owned by him. I threw myself on him and shoved my tongue deep inside his mouth; he responded in kind, clutching at my hair and circling his hips. I could hardly breathe and my heart throbbed madly in my throat, but I had him and I would not let him go.

“Suck me,” he rasped. Even this ravished he wasn’t begging.

I obeyed, went down on my knees, and gagged on his dick while fisting mine. It was fast and rough and messy: he, thrusting up into me and mewling like a sexed-up kitten and I, grunting and blinking the water out of my eyes. After he came – endless salty spurts that I couldn’t get enough of – he slid down and helped me get off; his elegant hands stroked my cock with finesse, his thumb flicking my slit at every pass. It wasn’t long before I spewed my release all over my stomach, I was still catching my breath when he ducked down and licked it before the water washed it all away.

 

“Bach really does it for you,” he said, as we sat in the kitchen drinking chilled Mateus rosé and nibbling cheese and crackers. “You loved it back then, when I played it for you.”

“You made me beg for it.”

“I wasn’t sure you liked it.”

I ruffled his damp curls.

“Are we still talking about music?”

He giggled and shook his head.

“Up to then I’d thought that you were avoiding me because you couldn’t stand being with me.”

“When it was actually the opposite,” I said.

We’d talked about it after we’d become lovers, but I’d never asked him if he’d thought of giving up on me when it had become clear that I wouldn’t make the first move. What if another man had arrived on the scene, one who’d showered him with praise and been determined to win his affection? It was a pointless speculation, or at least it had been until I’d met mystery guy.

“Why did you ask me about the trip to Italy,” he asked, looking down at his fingers, which were crumbling a chunk of Stilton, “You sure you are not having second thoughts?”

That was my cue to tell him about my afternoon encounter.

I realised that I couldn’t.

“I want to pay for my ticket, that's what I wanted to say. I can sign you a blank cheque and you can fill in the amount at the travel agents.”

“I’d say no, but I’m too poor to buy it for you,” he said, frankly. “I don’t like walking around with a blank cheque, though.”

We agreed that he’d telephone and find out about the price of the ticket first. He no longer was that dreamy boy I’d met, entirely lost in his books and his music. There was now a shrewd, practical side to him that I was learning to love as much as his self-assurance and his sexual prowess. If Elio changed his mind about me – like the stranger at the gallery had suggested – I wasn’t sure my heart would be able to take it.

 

Oliver was keeping something from me, so far so obvious.

After dinner, I headed home. He wasn’t happy to see me go and I would have stayed, but the phone rang and it was Alice. It was a timely reminder that nothing had been settled yet and that putting a bit of distance between us was wise if not pleasant. I kissed him on the cheek and walked to the door.

“Give me a second,” I heard him say and then he was striding towards me.

“You don’t have to go,” he said, frowning.

I smiled and kissed him again.

“I’m got some work to do and my books are at home.”

“It’s not because-”

“Not at all,” I replied, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“We could go to the cinema,” he suggested.

I wanted to see Jarman’s Caravaggio at the ICA and we agreed to meet in Pall Mall at six the following day.

It wasn’t late and there was a residual glimmer of light in the evening sky. I walked down Whitecross Street thinking about Oliver, our Italian holiday and the summer that was just around the corner. When I arrived home, I was so distracted that I didn’t even realise that the lift had been repaired. I bounded up the stairs, narrowly avoiding a pink pushchair on the first floor landing.

When I opened the door, I heard faint noises coming from the living room.

“Honey, I’m home,” I shouted.

No reply.

“You awake?”

No reply.

I hesitated, not wishing to catch Pierre in whatever act he was engaging in.

“Can I come in?” I asked.

Muted sounds but again, no reply.

At that point my curiosity had overcome any other scruple.

The lights were off except for the glow of the TV. On the screen, William Hurt was naked inside a bathtub with Kathleen Turner: she wanted to have sex again and he wasn’t sure his dick could take another round.

The laughter which came after that line wasn’t Pierre’s.

I switched the lights on and was struck dumb: Riccardo Malaspina.

“ _Il tuo amico_ _è_ _andato dal suo_ _boyfriend_ ,” he said, with that drawl that I’d come to despise. Of course, he wouldn’t apologise or explain; that would have been beneath him.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, refusing to speak Italian and concede even an inch of advantage.

“Here in your apartment or here in London?”

“Both.”

“Sit down and I’ll tell you.”

He patted the seat next to him and offered me a bottle of Adelscott, as though I was his guest.

“Where did you find that?” I asked, indicating the beer.

“A place in Soho,” he said, pressing the off button on the remote. “They sell drugs too, but I don’t trust people who branch out. It’s better to be good at one thing that average at many.”

I grabbed the bottle and drank half of it in one go. I belched loudly, right into his face. He smirked, but his eyes were as cold as those of a crocodile. He hadn’t changed much since the last time I’d seen him in Milan, just before moving to London: he was slightly slimmer, his cheeks more hollow and his hair longer, but aside from that, he was the same boy I had known for most of my life.

I sat on the armchair rather than on the couch and he got another beer from a Selfridge’s carrier bag.

“I have things to do, so why don’t you cut the bullshit and tell me why the fuck you are here.”

He took a packet of cigarettes out of the pocket of his leather jacket. I closed my eyes: Marlboro Red, a field of red flowers; poppies.

“Want one?” he asked.

“I’ve got mine, thanks,” I replied, and rifled through the contents of my Invicta to find Oliver’s Silk Cuts. I used my lighter and didn’t offer it to him: petty, maybe, but I didn’t care.

“You smoke those now?” he enquired, with his usual way of hinting at a double-entendre.

“When in Rome-”

“Doesn’t your man disapprove?” he continued, “About your smoking, I mean.”

The hair stood up on the back of my neck.

“What man?”

He chuckled.

“By the look of him, he goes to the gym every day and never touches sugar.”

“You have talked to Jack.”

I was going to kill my cousin.

“At least he has impeccable taste in clothes,” he went on, ignoring my comment, “Lovely cufflinks and if that shirt had been any tighter I would have seen his nipples.”

I felt a cold shiver travel down my spine.

“Please get out,” I said.

“I only wanted to see what he looked like, that’s all.”

He stood up and walked up to me. I looked into his eyes, letting him see how I felt.

“He’s big and strong and as innocent as a newborn babe,” he said, “Poor Oliver.”

Quick as lightning, he bent down and kissed me on both cheeks. I recoiled in disgust.

“See you around,” he whispered. 


	27. Crime and Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio may be a tiny bit angry....  
> Mild D/s stuff ensues. It's really very vanilla, but I thought I better warn you all the same.
> 
> Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since one of you lovely readers has pointed this out, let me make it clear: the sex between Elio/Oliver in this story is always consensual. There is at times a mild element of violence (like in all D/s relationships) which is mutually agreed and which is never abusive. There may be a few missteps and misfires, but they are due to the boys' inexperience not any intention to hurt or abuse each other. They are in love and like Elio said: 'we travel together or we don't travel at all'. <33

I was in my boxer shorts and ready for bed when the furious banging started.

Why would the visitor not ring the bell and who could they be, I wondered.

The irritation and curiosity outstripped the fear of possible danger.

“Who is it?” I shouted.

“Open the fucking door,” bellowed Elio’s voice.

When I did, he strode in like a man being stalked by a bloodthirsty mob.

“What’s happened?” I asked.

I shouldn’t have done that.

He came up to me and jabbed at my bare sternum with his fingers: it hurt, but I didn’t flinch.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me about him?” he hissed.

“I thought that maybe--”

He snorted loudly and slapped at my chest with the flat of his hand. His face was so close to mine I could count the freckles on his lips; his breath reeked of beer, but he didn't seem blind drunk.

“Oh you _thought_... thought what exactly? That you’d keep it from me and maybe meet him in secret? He’s prettier than me after all. Green eyes, dark hair: you like that don’t you? Mean and lean, that’s what you said. And they don’t come any meaner than Riccardo fucking Malaspina.”

I’d heard that name before, but couldn’t remember where.

“I didn’t even know his name.”

Why didn’t I just shut up?

Elio grabbed me by the neck and pressed his thumb into the hollow of my throat. His smile was razor-sharp.

“You could have called him by yours,” he said.

 It was a stab in the guts.

“Can we talk about this?” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

“You tell me, Oliver,” he sneered, “Can we? Because it seems to me that every time there is a problem you shut me out and pretend everything is fine. I was with you before, in there,” he pointed in the direction of the bathroom, “You sucked my dick and I ate your come and even after that you said nothing. That’s why you changed your mind about Italy, isn’t it?”

“I did not change my mind,” I replied, raising my voice.

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” he repeated through clenched teeth.

“Come and sit down,” I said.

“No,” he spat out, “We are doing this my way.”

He clasped me by the wrist and towed me to the bedroom. I didn’t say anything, I hardly drew breath. I felt myself surrender: it was an exhilarating sensation, at once heady and scary, like the dizziness one feels when standing on top of a mountain.

He slammed the door shut with his foot and shed his clothes and underwear until he stood in nothing but a faded blue t-shirt, which reached down to mid-thigh.

His face was pale but with two spots of red on each cheek. He darted a piercing look at me: he was furious, but in a more controlled way; it was a questioning gaze too: asking me if I was okay with what was about to happen, if I was ready and willing to participate.  I bent my head and shut my eyes, allowing him to read my acquiescence, to hear my laboured breath and thumping heart. An empty length of time passed, a few seconds which seemed like hours.

“You don’t talk unless I say so,” he stated, “But you can ask me to stop, okay?”

I nodded.

He tugged my boxers down and off me, uncaring of the elastic snapping at my sac. I wasn’t sure whether it was permitted to be aroused, so I tried to think unsexy thoughts, but found that I couldn’t settle on anything specific.

“Get down on your back,” he instructed, coldly, “Keep your hands out of the way.”

I lay on the bed and flung my arms above my head. He removed his t-shirt, climbed on the mattress next to me and made me spread my legs. All the while, I sensed his anger: it emanated from him like steam, blending with the pungent smell of sweat and alcohol. It excited me beyond reason: my body wanted it and had been starved for it since puberty. But what was _it_? Spanking, flogging, whipping: these terms elicited no particular thrill, so what could I possibly gain from the act of submission? If I were to be passive, how could I be sure that he would give me what I needed? And what did I need?

Before I could disappear inside my head, Elio yanked me by the hair and slipped his tongue past the seam of my lips. He licked and stroked and went deep, taking control, kissing me with his entire body until I was light-headed.

“Did he get close to you?” he asked, his breath on my cheek; I nodded and he responded by tweaking my nipple; it was painful enough to make my eyes water.

“Did he touch you?”

His eyes bore into mine: wide, dark, unflinching.

I shook my head.

His hand was now between my legs, two fingers pressing the point behind my balls.

“What if he had, would you have liked it?”

Again, I shook my head.

I could feel his nails grazing my rim then his thumb penetrated me: I but my lips to stifle my moans. He played around until he found what he was looking for then he rubbed over it, again and again. My hips shot off the mattress but Elio forced me back down. His dick was hard and drooling all over me. I wanted to stroke it or at least provide some friction with my torso, but I knew it wasn’t allowed.

“How can I trust you again?” he asked, while his other hand closed around the base of my cock and tightened like a vice. He was pulling me in both directions, working me to the brink of orgasm then cutting me off; he did that for an undefinable length of time, until I was covered in sweat, muscles tense and twitchy.

I had left his question unanswered and he didn’t seem to expect a reply, as though he’s been talking to himself.

“Look at me,” he ordered. I obeyed and saw such sadness in his beautiful eyes I wanted to cry. “You hurt me,” he whispered, “Is that what you wanted?”

I mouthed a “no” and let the tears roll down on my cheeks. My erection had wilted and any trace of arousal had dissipated.

His arms wrapped me in a warm embrace and I melted into him.

I felt raw, flayed, unable to speak.

He stroked my hair, my nape, the length of my back.

After a while, he pressed his lips to my forehead.

“I never want to do this again,” he murmured, “Don’t make me do this again.”

 

“Will you stay here?” I asked him, after we’d cleaned up and returned to bed.

“We still need to talk,” he said, looking me in the eye to gauge my reaction.

“I wouldn’t be able to sleep otherwise,” I replied.

“I need a cigarette and I left yours at home, together with your spare keys,” he smirked.

“Wait, I have some at the back of a drawer.”

“I thought you quit.”

“I have.”

He rolled his eyes and told me to look for them. We decided to smoke on the terrace, since the night was unseasonably mild.

“I was at the Barbican Art Gallery, of all places,” I said, as soon as we stepped outside, “He came up behind me and started talking shit about the exhibition. I told him I didn’t have time to waste and that’s when he mentioned you.”

“What about me?”

“That you were a waste of time,” I replied.

“Of course,” he murmured.

“He said you were fickle.”

“Did he use that word?”

“He even quoted Rigoletto.”

Now it sounded funny, but not when Malaspina had said it.

“Did you believe him?”

I couldn’t lie.

“I can’t say that it didn’t shake me a little,” I admitted.

“He’s very good at that, always was.”

“Why does his name sound familiar?”

“Their villa is not far from ours but his family went to Sardinia that summer.”

“Oh yes, I remember that Vimini mentioned it once, but no one talked about Riccardo.”

“Mention the devil and he will believe you summoned him.”

“He’s little more than a boy.”

Elio scowled at me.

“Don’t be so American middle-class.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Wholesome and picket-fence-proper,” he replied, “Kids can be cruel, some more than others. Some improve, others get worse and a few are intentionally cruel.”

“Maybe he’s jealous and wants attention.”

Elio chuckled and puffed out a cloud of smoke.

“ _Ingénue_ ,” he smiled softly. “He does not care about you or me. I’m not even sure he cares about himself. It’s all just a game to him.”

“We’ll ignore him and he’ll grow tired and go play elsewhere,” I suggested.

“I wish it were that easy.”

“But surely his tactics work only until one calls his bluff.”

“He’ll only adapt and find another way.”

“You make him sound like a deadly parasite.”

“Yeah”

There followed a charged silence: I wanted to ask him what kind of relationship they’d had and how close they’d been, but was hoping he’d tell me of his own accord.

“He was there when I got home,” he said.

“With Pierre?”

“He was on his own, watching a film, with the lights off.”

“What? Did he break in?”

“You underestimate his charms,” he scoffed, “He’s handsome and he had a bagful of beers: both sure-fire ways to Pierre’s heart.”

“You drank the beer too.”

“I sure did. After I kicked him out, I didn’t know what to do. I was too upset to think clearly, so I figured a drink would help. By the third beer, I was so fucking furious I could have murdered you both.”

“When you move in with me, he won’t be able to do that any more.”

Elio threw the cigarette butt on the concrete and crushed it underfoot.

“Oh my god,” he exclaimed, “He’ll take my place, I know he will.”

“What?”

He raked a hand through his hair.

“He’ll go live with Pierre, that’s what.”

“In that dump? He wouldn’t last a week.”

“You don’t know him.”

I took Elio’s hand and twined our fingers together.

“And I don’t particularly want to.”

He sniffed, bit the inside of his cheek.

“It’d be better if it stayed that way.”

“Honesty can’t be a one-way street.”

“What if I swore to you that it never mattered?” he said, bringing our joined hands to his lips and kissing my wrist.

“It must have or we wouldn’t be here talking about it.”

Elio pouted in that way he had which made him resemble a recalcitrant kid.

“So let’s not do that,” he argued, pointedly changing the subject, “I wish I had taken my books with me.”

“I could go with you.”

He smiled broadly.

“And will you stay over?”

I wasn’t too happy about that, but I would do it for him.

“Yeah, and besides I don’t have an early start tomorrow,” I replied, bumping his shoulder with mine.

“We could sleep in,” he said, “You owe me breakfast in bed.”

“If you insist,” I joked, “But no beer and no cheep vodka. Only coffee and apricot preserve on toast.”

He slapped my backside.

“And I owe you the fun that you didn’t get to have tonight.”

“It wasn’t all bad.”

“Earlier in the shower, you mean?”

A shiver ran from the base of my spine to the back of my thighs. The ache was still present, recalled by the sting that his smacks had produced.

“No, I mean, yes, that was great, but in the bedroom,” I was suddenly tongue-tied.

“I trusted you; that you would be there with me--- wherever I was going.”

He curled his arm around my waist.

“We travel together or we don’t travel at all,” he said, firmly.

His words reassured me more than a lengthy declaration might have done.

“Speaking of which,” he said, “What did Alice say?”

“I’d left her a message regarding my trip. She’s spoken to Sarah – that’s her sister – who told her she’d always suspected I liked men. When Alice asked why, you know what she said?”

He shook his head.

“I never ogled her breasts and all men do, according to her.”

“You certainly admired Chiara’s ---assets,” he joked.

“Only when you were around,” I countered in the same vein, “And for a very short time; I shouldn’t have flirted with her, but that was mostly your fault.”

“Of course it was,” he laughed. “Alice’s sister seems---interesting.”

“That’s one word for what she is.”

“You don’t like her.”

“I don’t care for people who think the world revolves around them.”

Elio muttered something under his breath. I didn’t catch it, but the gist of it – and the person it was referred to - was quite obvious.

The past is never done with us until we are done with it.


	28. Fierce as the Grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio wants to make it up to Oliver...
> 
> Elio's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter's title is from the Song of Solomon:  
> "Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm; for love is strong as death, passion fierce as the grave."
> 
> In Daring to Desire You, Elio explained that he'd nicknamed his friend Pierre because he (Sylvain) reminded him of French actor Pierre Cosso.

“We should change the sheets, just in case,” Oliver said, after he’d conducted a thorough search of my apartment to make sure that Riccardo wasn’t hiding underneath the bed or inside the bath, like the killer in Psycho.

“My spare sheets are in the wash.”

“You didn’t bring them to my place.”

“I forgot.”

He gave me a dirty look.

“So you only have two sets of bed sheets?”

“I’m a student, not the Ritz.”

“You are hilarious.”

“If you don’t want to sleep in my bed,” I started, but he cut me short.

“I won’t mind if you don’t,” he said, “And it’s only for one night anyway.”

We fell asleep almost as soon as we hit the mattress.

I woke up with Oliver’s head on my shoulder: he was deliciously stubbly and messy-haired; I could not find a single reason to not do this every single morning for the rest of my life. I ran my finger through the fur on his chest, softly, not wanting to awaken him. I thought about our confrontation and his tears: he hadn’t told me to stop, but it had been unsettling and not something I’d fancy repeating. I suspected that he’d been wound up for so long that he had been unable to control his reactions. It filled me with pride that he’d chosen to reveal his real self to me, even though I was certain that we’d peeled away only the first of many layers.

“Hey,” he muttered, opening his eyes a chink and shutting them just as fast. The sunshine was streaming in and he buried his face in my neck to shut out the light.

I stroked his hair and felt his smile on my skin.

“Slept well?”

He nodded.

“I don’t like sleeping alone,” he murmured. Had it been possible, he’d have snuggled even closer. I had never seen him so cuddly, but it was clearly a consequence of last night’s events. 

“You won’t have to,” I replied, caressing his shoulder and is arm. “I was being stupidly stubborn. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He kissed my throat and the underside of my jaw, and it was all it took for me to go from affectionate to horny.

“If you keep doing this,” I warned him, and he redoubled his efforts. He was licking the inside of my ear when my bladder decided it could no longer wait.

“Have to piss,” I groaned, making him chuckle.

“So romantic,” he mocked, “Celan has nothing on you.”

The comment earned him a smack on the backside, which had an unforeseen effect.

“That’s it,” he laughed, “I’m carrying you to the bathroom.”

He acted so quickly that by the time I realised what was happening, he had me in his arms, bridal-style, and was striding out of the room.

“Put me down, you lunatic,” I chided, but there was something erotic in the swell of his biceps and in the ease with which he was bearing my weight, as if I were as light as a feather.

“There you go,” he said, depositing me in front of the toilet bowl.

“It was the beer,” I explained, and relieved myself while he brushed his teeth. We swapped places a minute later, and the intimacy of these mundane acts filled me with joy.

“Wanna take a bath?” he asked, after I’d rinsed my mouth with Mint Listerine.

“Go back to bed,” I replied, “I’ll only be five minutes.”

He got the hint and I caught him leering at my ass as he left.

 

I returned to the spectacle of a naked Oliver spread out on my bed and slowly stroking his very hard and wet dick.

“You found the lube,” I choked out.

There was a condom on the bedside table next to the uncapped tube of KY.

The morning light was casting a soft glow on his skin and made his body hair golden and shimmery.

I climbed on the mattress and kneeled between his parted legs; I bent down and smeared his sac with a sloppy, open-mouth kiss. His fist was still pumping and I closed my hand around it, while I sucked on his balls. He was moaning my name and I was as hard as he was. I didn’t have to say a word: I looked up at him and he met my gaze with dark, hazy eyes. He rolled the condom on with shaky fingers and as I straddled him, he bit his lips, hard enough to leave an imprint on his teeth.

“It’s okay, we are okay,” I said, caressing his face and his hair.

When he was fully inside me, I arched my back and circled my hips to savour the stretch and the piercing pain he was causing me; I adored how big he was and how enormous he became when he was madly aroused.

His hands were all over my body: rubbing my chest, holding my waist, stroking my thighs; he was desperate to please me.

“Oliver, Oliver, Oliver,” I murmured, and brought my mouth to his. I was showing him that I loved him with my whole being, clenching around him like I would never let him go. I shot over his hand and stomach, my heart in my mouth like a throbbing moth, while his warmth filled the latex but could never reach my insides.

“We are going to that clinic,” he said afterwards, reading my thoughts. “I hate that I have to be protected from you.”

“To be fair, I am quite dangerous,” I said, yanking a fistful of his chest hair.

“Lethal,” he agreed, and I could tell he wasn’t entirely joking.

“We could go today; they are open until late in the evening.”

He hesitated.

“Or another day, if you are busy,” I said.

“No, it’s just that I’d promised Will I’d go and see him today,” he explained. He glanced at me, tousling my hair in a distracted manner. “You could come with me, if you want.”

It was my turn to be silent.

“No, maybe, of course if you prefer not to,” he hastened to add, “and I understand that you might not-”

“You caught me by surprise, that’s all,” I was beaming, “I didn’t expect that you’d want to introduce me to your friends yet.”

He tickled my sides and we engaged in a bit of wrestling before settling down again, breathless and giggly.

“I want us to lead a normal life,” he said, “I don’t want us to hide. I have done that in the past, but not anymore.”

“I don’t want that either,” I replied, “Otherwise other people might think they can stake a claim on you.”

“I could say the same for you,” he protested.

It was a stalemate of passion and jealousy, but we were learning to navigate the choppy waters of our relationship.

 

I didn’t have any apricot preserve but there was a jar of _Bonne Maman_ strawberry jam in the fridge. Oliver was pleasantly surprised that I had spent money on a decent brand.

“The vodka can be cheap, but not this,” I said, “I could almost hear Mafalda’s disapproving comments.”

He smiled. “I can hear them too, even though I can’t understand her Lombardy argot.”

“That’s how she gets away with grumbling half the time.”

I was trying to keep my eyes on the coffee and toast and not have them stray in the direction of Oliver’s torso. After cleaning up, he’d slid on a denim shirt that he'd taken with him and which I’d never seen him wear before. It was dark blue, with small mother-of-pearl press buttons, the three top ones of which he’d left undone. With his slicked back wet hair and day-old stubble, he was a cross between a cowboy and a Levi’s jeans model.

“Are you allowed to wear denim in class?” I asked, and of course I knew he could because no strict dress code was ever enforced at the Guildhall.

He smiled and shook his head.

“What are you saying?”

I slipped one hand inside the shirt’s opening and teased his nipple.

“I wouldn’t want anyone to be able to do this,” I replied, “You can leave the top button undone.”

“I _can_ leave it?” he quipped. Beneath my fingertips, the little nub was standing to attention.

“Since you ask, I’d prefer you didn’t.”

He snorted out a laugh, but his heart was beating faster.

“That what you’d wanted all along back then,” I said, “The short shorts, the gaping shirts; flaunting your naked body: you wanted me to comment on it.”

His neck flushed brick-red.

“Maybe,” he murmured.

I kissed the hollow of his throat.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” I said, in between kisses, “I was put on this earth to fulfil your every need.”

“And there was me thinking your life’s mission was to be my drama queen.”

I blushed.

“That too,” I said. I flicked his nipple and he sighed against my hair. It would have swiftly ended with me ripping his shirt off if we hadn’t heard the door open and the footsteps of two men approaching, one of whom was Pierre.

“Are you two in bed together?” he shouted.

He strode into the kitchen with my cousin in tow; when Pierre saw Oliver, he seemed genuinely surprised. Jack tapped him on the shoulder and held up his hand, palm upturned. “You owe me a tenner,” he said, but our friend ignored him.

“He got paid by Malaspina, I bet,” I replied.

Pierre nabbed a piece of toast and popped it into his mouth, while Jack poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down next to Oliver.

“You’ve met Riccardo,” he said.

“News travels fast. Did he tell you?”

Jack sidestepped the question, as he often did.

“Why did you think I phoned you?”

Oliver was mystified.

“How would I know? You asked me if Elio was with me then you ended the call.”

My cousin eyed me in silence. For some reason, I couldn’t meet his gaze.

“Anyway,” he said, as though he’d reached a conclusion which he wasn’t prepared to divulge yet, “I’m moving in with Sylvain and since time waits for no dithering cousin, you better pack up your stuff and get the hell out of here.”

Oliver’s face was a study in bafflement. Jack sighed and patted him on the shoulder.

“Sylvain is Pierre’s real name,” he explained, “And I have already booked a removal company. I’m not sleeping in your bed,” he grimaced.

During this odd exchange, Pierre had been shamelessly ogling Oliver’s chest.

I was tempted to punch him in the solar plexus, but he was much bigger than me and I didn’t want to put on too much of a show for my already horny boyfriend.

“I can’t move now and Oliver has to go to work.”

Jack rolled his eyes.

“Let’s see,” he said, and walked out of the kitchen.

The last thing I wanted was for my cousin to see my sex-ravaged bed: I tried to stop him, but when I got there, he was already doing the inventory of my possessions. He examined the books, the contents of the drawers and the inside of the closet and of the night-stand.

“You can fit what you need inside two large carton boxes. The rest can go in the bin or to Oxfam, if you feel charitable,” he stated, adjusting his glasses which had slid down the bridge of his nose as he bent to look at my shoes.

“What’s with the hurry?”

“Are you serious or has sex with Oliver made you even dumber?”

“I can handle him,” I said, “And you used to mind your own business once upon a time.”

He was staring at my bed.

“Did you smoke my hash with him?”

Like all conversations with my cousin, it had started like a straight route and ended up in a maze.

“Yes, Oliver shared it with me: great stuff.”

“My man lives around here.”

“What man?”

“Gaz,” he said, “Short for Gabriel. He’s Brazilian.”

“Your boyfriend?”

The last I’d heard, Jack had been going out with a girl.

“My dealer,” he replied, eyes still fixed on the same spot.

I wondered whether he had guessed something about the dynamic between me and Oliver, and if he was intrigued or just a little bit curious. He seemed to like Oliver and the feeling was mutual. I was pondering all kinds of unpleasant possibilities when he turned to me: “You better go back to the kitchen. Pierre’s very hungry this morning.”


	29. Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio meets Will and starts to behave like he REALLY believes he and Oliver are a couple, at last.
> 
> Oliver's POV then Elio's

After turning up announced, Jack had wondered around the flat like an estate agent inspecting a repossessed property.  Elio had been glowering at Pierre while the latter smoked my cigarettes and asked me about my training routine. I had eaten my toast and drunk my coffee with the Olympian calm of a man who’d just achieved the previously unthinkable: I belonged to Elio and we were going to live together.

I’d even decided to play cupid and told Pierre about Tom or Tim from the gym.

“He’s about my age, tall, dark-haired and fit,” I said, relishing the dirty looks Elio was throwing at me while chatting with his cousin.

“But you don’t remember his name,” Pierre had replied, showing that he wasn’t as vapid as he acted.

“Not my type, but he could be yours. Plus I’m not on the market.”

“Everyone’s on the market, sooner or later.”

Elio had cleared his throat, loudly, and I had bitten back a smile.

“Anyway, I can get you a free pass to the Barbican Gym and you can see for yourself.”

Later, as were walking towards Willoughby House, I waited for the axe to fall. It didn’t take long.

“You going on a date with Pierre then?” Elio asked, with badly acted nonchalance. I’d have kissed him right there and then if we hadn’t been in the middle of a busy street.

“Hardly a date,” I replied, “Just two friends going to the same gym.”

“And you’ll introduce him to that Tom guy who drools all over you?”

“I have a feeling his name’s Tim,” I replied, “He doesn’t look like a Tom.”

My cheeks hurt as I contrived to stay serious.

“What does that even mean,” he muttered. He didn’t realise I was joking: Elio was smart and intuitive, but I was his blind spot, like he was mine.

“Oh you know, Tom’s a steady name, a bit boring and predictable, while Tim, yeah, Tim’s more adventurous and sexy.”

“You just say that because he tried to get into your pants,” he said, acidly, “And I am still not convinced that you weren’t going commando.”

“I wasn’t, but last time I saw him he may have been.”

“You saw him more than once?”

“We go to the same gym.”

He was biting his lips and flaring his nostrils.

“And now Pierre is going to be there too,” he said, “You are going to have your own harem, like a sultan.”

“You should come too since you are my favourite.”

He laughed.

“You are such a peacock,” he exclaimed, “Maybe you should go live in Mrs Blackwater’s garden.”

“Didn’t you say her peacocks died?”

“But they had a great time while they were alive.”

“I plan to have a fantastic time with you in our bed tonight.”

Elio nudged my shoulder, “Sounds a little presumptuous.”

“On the couch then,” I countered, and he giggled happily.  That silly noise he made - a childlike breathless gargle - always made my heart skip a beat.

 

The rest of the day passed without further incidents. We had agreed to meet at six outside the greasy spoon where we’d had coffee that first day after we’d bumped into each other. It was only then that I remembered our previous plans.

“Sorry about the film, it totally slipped my mind.”

“We can go another time. I can’t wait to get to know Professor Carey as your friend Will. I have so many questions,” he replied, “I even wrote down some in my notebook.”

“Have you done all your packing?”  
He’d told me that he was going to do that over his lunch break.

“I took two big suitcases with me, mostly books and records.”

“Did you get a taxi?” I had offered to pay for it, but he had refused to take the money.

“Let’s say that I did.”

“Next time I’ll go with you. I just got you back and I’d like to keep you injury-free for a while longer.”

He smirked, but his hand brushed mine as we walked side by side.

“ _You_ got _me_ back? Way to rewrite history, Mister.”

I was on shaky ground there, so I hastened to change the subject.

“I have been speaking to Nolan and he told me about this second-hand piano I could buy.”

Elio stopped dead in his tracks.

“You don’t have to,” he protested, “I can manage very well without.”

“I don’t want you to just _manage_ and besides I’m doing it for selfish reasons too: I miss your plunking.”

“What brand?”

“A Bechstein grand, I believe.”

“Not bad, not bad.”

I could see that he was happier than he was letting on.

“There’s plenty of space in the living room and the walls are so thick you won’t disturb anyone.”

“Except for you,” he argued, arching his eyebrows.

“You could make it up to me by playing in the nude,” I whispered in his ear.

“Using a noble instrument as a sex prop,” he joked, “You are not that innocent, after all.”

“You have corrupted me with your many charms.”

My tone was light, but his searching gaze contained more than a hint of darkness.

“You don’t regret it, do you?”

I shook my head.

“I want everything with you,” I said, touching his arm and feeling the shiver which ran through him. “No more holding back: I’m done with that.”

He stared at me without blinking, “Later,” he said, and I knew exactly which bit of our past he was referring to. It was as though our brief summer together had been turned into a novel and years later we’d found the volume and leafed through it, first on our own and then together, and lingered on the passages which delighted us while skipping those that made us ache with regret and bittersweet nostalgia. I wished I had written that book, because if I had, Elio would have been the protagonist and I the narrator; I would have been the Nick to his Gatsby and the whole world would have adored him like I did.

 

Will had been upgraded from bed-ridden to wheelchair-bound and he was behind Frieda when she let us in.

“He’s going crazy,” she said, with an indulgent smile, “Especially since Marathon’s day is approaching.”

“And the weather’s amazing too,” Will complained.

“The forecast for Sunday is wet and windy,” she said to reassure him.

“I couldn’t imagine a more British conversation if I tried,” I said, “Maybe just factor in some fish and chips.”

“And a strong cuppa,” Elio added, in a mock-upper class accent.

“No need to gang up on me,” Will protested, “I’m an invalid, after all.”

The three of us laughed and he told us where to go in very explicit terms.

“Perlman,” he said, once we were in the lounge, which he still used as his bedroom, “What will you have, beer or wine?”

“Either is fine.”

“I feel like chilled white wine.”

“Yeah, that sounds amazing,” I agreed.

Frieda went to fetch the drinks.

“Oliver, please go make sure she doesn’t dredge up that disgusting juniper and elderflower cordial. It’s the same colour as the Pinot Grigio and she’s already tricked me with it once.”

I took the hint and left him alone with Elio.

 

 

Will Carey looked up at me with a piercing gaze which strangely reminded me of my cousin’s.

“I suppose that you have questions. Better make it quick,” he said.

He’d taken me by surprise, but I only hesitated for a second.

“What is Alice like?”

“Funny, smart and very pretty,” he replied, candidly, “They love each other, that you should not doubt. But-,”

“But what?”

“Oliver was highly strung most of the time,” he continued, “I thought it was due to his work or his family, but I was wrong.”

“Maybe you weren’t.”

“He made me take this job because of you. He was thinking of you even as he praised the Guildhall to me and his wife,” he sniggered, “He did seem a tad too enthusiastic to only be speaking about a University.”

“I’m sorry that he lied to you.”

“Was it worth it, is what I’d like to know. It would be none of my business, but Oliver sort of made it so.”

My first instinct was to be defensive and sarcastic, but he didn’t deserve my anger.

“Was it worth it? I can’t say. But we are together and I won’t let anything come between us.”

He pondered my words and smiled.

“It’s all that Latin fire, isn’t it?” he joked, “Oliver got burnt to a crisp, poor boy.”

I blushed and that made him laugh.

“I blame the drugs,” he apologised with a wink, “They make me too straightforward.”

“That’s your excuse and I’m not disputing it,” I countered. He gave me his right hand to shake and I held it gingerly, afraid of hurting him.

“Now that we’ve broken the ice, will you wheel me out into the garden and give me a cigarette?”

The rose bushes were about to bloom, but the daffodils had put on a lush display and there was an overpowering smell of jasmine even though I couldn’t tell where the plant itself was.

Through the open French windows, I could see Oliver and Frieda pouring the drinks and chatting away. Will was puffing on my Silk Cut as though his life depended on it.

“They have asked me to show up at the marathon celebration party, but I don’t think I could stomach it even if I felt better.”

“Yeah, I see what you mean.”

“I know it sounds petty but I trained every single day for this and all for nothing. I gave up smoking and drinking, pretty much destroying my social life, and here I am, sharing a crafty fag with a student, like a character in a Rattigan play.”

“A fag with a fag,” I quipped.

He frowned, “Don’t say that.”

“I didn’t mean to-”

“I have friends,” he stopped, as though it pained him to go on, “Or I should say I _had_ them, since they are dead now. Two of them, back in the States; I was in San Francisco for a year. It was so fast, the way they died.”

“Did Oliver--?”

He shook his head.

“It was before I met him and I didn’t really want to talk about it. And no, I am not nor was I ever gay, but it never mattered until it suddenly did.”

I wanted to reassure him that we were being careful, but that information wasn’t only mine to divulge. He seemed to understand all the same.

“Sorry for being such a downer,” he smiled, handing me the cigarette, “This enforced inactivity is driving me round the bend.”

Frieda and Oliver joined us and handed us our glasses.

“Did he give you the third degree?” she asked me. She had a _jolie laide_ face and very striking red hair.

“It was fifty-fifty,” I replied. “I love your garden. I wish I had one too.”

Oliver snorted.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing”

“Are you insinuating I wouldn’t look after it?”

“Would you?”

“I’ll buy some plants for your terrace and we’ll see, shan’t we?”

Frieda and Will exchanged amused looks.

“You sound like my mum and dad,” she said.

“What’s the opposite of a green thumb?” Will asked. “Because that’s her mother. She kills every plant she tends to.”

Frieda threw her head back and laughed.

“She tried to use her black magic on mine when Will had his accident.”

“But Fried soon put a stop to that,” Will said, seemingly very proud of his girlfriend’s decisiveness, “Beware of red-heads, they always get their way.”

“If that were the case, you wouldn’t be smoking behind my back.”

He took her hand and placed it on his cheek.

“Only because you let me,” he said.

Oliver and I looked at each other and smiled.

 

We had a pleasant evening, but we didn’t stay long because Will was in pain and had to be sedated. When we walked back it was just getting dark.

“I like them,” I said, “She’s amazing and so funny. They are so well matched.”

“They haven’t been together for long, but it’s almost like they’ve always known each other.”

“I asked him about Alice,” I confessed.

“Yeah, it figures,” he said, “What did he tell you?”

I related my conversation with his friend.

“He is more observant than I gave him credit for. You were always in my thoughts, one way or another.”

“I wish she didn’t have to suffer,” I said, “I used to hate her, but now I’m just sorry for her. I know what it feels like to lose you.”

“We were never,” he started, “It was never like it is between us, Elio; never this strong and this right.”

“Like coming home,” I whispered.

 


	30. Slave to Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exactly what it says on the tin.... 
> 
> Oliver's POV

 

 

 

“Here you go,” I said, setting the glass of lemon iced tea on the low table by the sofa. “What have you found?”

Elio was emptying one of his two suitcases, which he’d stuffed full of books and notepads. I sat close to him and he showed me the sheet of paper he was reading. It was densely packed with words in his spiky handwriting.

 _“_ _I had no illusions that I'd ever find a glimpse of summer's heatwaves in your eyes,”_ I read out loud.  “Is this yours? I think I’ve heard this one before.”

He giggled.

“That’s Alphaville’s Big in Japan,” he replied, “I was listening to this song a lot all through the winter after you left me.”

I made a face and he scrunched his nose. “When I’m maudlin my musical tastes deteriorate. I think it’s the habitual cure for heartbreak: comfort food and schmaltzy songs.”

I kept reading and at first I believed that it was still a song or maybe an excerpt from a novel. It was dark and rather sick and twisted; it was - I realised as the narrative went on - Elio describing how he wanted to see me dead and then deciding that no, he should be the one to lose his life or maybe just the use of his limbs; a few paragraphs later, he ranted about getting disfigured and blaming me for the scars on his face.

“When did you write this?” I croaked.

“That summer, before we got together.”

I sipped my drink, even though I’d have needed something stronger than tea.

“You remember when you and Anchise went fishing one afternoon and did not come back until very late?”

I nodded.

“Dad wanted to call your parents. He went to his office to look for their number in case he had to inform them you’d been injured or worse.”

“And you hated me so much you wished me dead?”

My blood was rushing in my ears: it was like listening to the ocean inside a seashell.

“I didn’t hate you,” he said, stroking my knee, “I was obsessed with you. I still am. Is this one step too far for you?”

He had imagined I’d be paralysed and at his mercy or that he’d hurt himself for my sake so that one day I’d regret having overlooked his devotion to me. It wasn’t healthy, especially considering how very young he’d been.

I wasn’t repulsed or horrified: I was fascinated and, if I had to admit it, sexually aroused.

“Have you ever felt like this before or since?” I asked.

He slowly shook his head, looking me straight in the eye, then the heel of his hand pressed against my crotch and his thumb found the head of my dick and rubbed it through two layers of fabric.

“You are hard,” he noted, licking his lips.

“Hmm,” was the extent of my reply.

He returned the piece of paper where he’d found it and kicked the pile of books to one side.

“You said we could have a good time on the couch,” he said.

“A fantastic time,” I corrected him.

“Insolence is going to cost you.”             

“I was only-”

“Compounding the offence,” he said, firmly, “Will have serious consequences.”

His thumb stilled and his hand was no longer applying pressure where I needed it most. I wanted to tilt my pelvis up to seek friction but I knew that it would be wrong. Without being fully aware of it, I was already submitting and he was controlling my pleasure. I’d had the foresight to dim the lights and aside from the floor lamp curving above the far end of the sofa, the room was in relative darkness. Like a prisoner being interrogated by a relentless guard, I felt Elio’s eyes boring into me as he planned his strategy.

I was starting to believe that he would torture me with silence when he straddled my thighs and ripped my denim shirt open, making the press buttons pop loudly.

“Is this fantastic?” he hissed, as he pinched my nipples so hard my eyes watered.

“Yes,” I moaned; _they are very sensitive_ , I whispered in his ear, and he uttered half-formed profanities; he then said that he was going to work them so viciously that they’d be on fire tomorrow; that he wanted me to beg him to stop.

“Never,” I replied, with a voice I didn’t recognise. “You’ll kill me if you stop.”

He didn’t stop. 

“Look at us,” he intimated, and I struggled to keep my eyes from drifting as the pain merged with pleasure. He only used his fingers, which squeezed and tweaked and kneaded with cool precision, while he taunted me with his gaze and the wetness of his mouth. It was almost obscene, the contrast between the hot rush of blood to the tip of my nipples and the promise of relief embodied by his tongue, his spit, his soft lips. From time to time, he tempted me with the ghost of a kiss, which I tried to capture with unthinking eagerness until he forced me to back down; he didn’t have to use his words: the modulation of his touch and the eloquence of his eyes were doubtless.

Time lagged then accelerated until it didn’t matter anymore: I could have stayed like that forever, if only I’d been able to formulate the thought.

At one point I felt certain that I’d ceased being Oliver; that I had become Elio and was following the pattern of his thoughts like the tracery of veins underneath his pale skin. I dimly saw him stand up and remove his clothes then he manhandled me so that he could rid me of my pants and underwear. I hadn’t paid any mind to how hard I was, but the moment his fingers touched my dick it became impossible to ignore. I spread my legs and thrust my hips, while Elio pinched the base of his cock to relieve some of his arousal.

“Please, please,” I begged him, suspecting that he wouldn’t be moved, that he would be cruel and that I would let him. As usual, he surprised me.

“I have you, I am here,” he cooed at me and he slid down on the floor; even in my distracted state I noticed the elegance of his movements, the grace of his folding limbs. Again, I was struck by his many contradictions when he pulled me towards the edge of the couch: he was strong and controlling again, and I melted beneath his grasp.

“Gently,” he whispered, his hot breath wet like fog on my sac. He mouthed at my balls, first with infinite care and then with more abandon. He licked and slurped and sucked, but never touched my cock.

I angled my groin towards his face; I was past shame and self-consciousness.

“Come to me,” he urged, and I joined him on the floor, ending up on my knees, chest to chest with him.

He caressed my face, brushing the sweat-soaked fringe off my forehead and stroking my tense jaw. Again, I didn’t sense the switch until it happened: he bit my lips and forced his way into my mouth. He kissed me like a wrestler who knows he’s already won the fight and before it was over, he’d gathered our lengths in his hand and was fisting them, tight and fast.

“You’re all mine, mine, mine,” he chanted, yanking the hair at my nape, while I held on to his waist and the world faded out of view.

 

“You’ll give your students a show tomorrow,” Elio said, indicating my swollen nipples.

“You made the omelette, you can’t complain about breaking the eggs,” I joked.

We were outside on the terrace, in the spot which had become our substitute for the balcony at the Perlmans’ villa. We were smoking the last cigarette before bed and mulling over the events of the evening. Elio was wearing my denim shirt and I had wrapped a blanket around my shoulders.

He sucked on the filter and closed his eyes.

“I could wear a jacket over my shirt,” I suggested.

His bare foot came to rest on top of mine and his toes curled and uncurled, softly.

“Would that make you happy?”

“You have no idea,” he replied, hoarsely.

But I did know; in fact, I’d felt it in the pit of my stomach and at the base of my spine; the realisation that we were taking our game outside the realm of the imaginary and into the everyday made my insides clench and quiver.

“I am not the same boy who wrote those things,” he said, after a while. “But that side of me has not gone away. I still can’t believe you want this too.”

“I do, I want it so very much,” I assured him; he grabbed me by the neck and kissed me on the cheek.

“You checked out on me when you climaxed,” he smiled, “I better make sure it won’t happen again in the future.”

“There was a lot of it,” I smirked and his eyes darkened visibly.

“You wouldn’t stop coming,” he said, “You were full to bursting.”

His voice was like a lewd caress.

“You should know since your mouth was all over my balls.”

I was getting hard again and it surprised me a little. I had been married nearly two years and my libido had been almost dormant. My sexual history had convinced me that my summer with Elio had been an exception to the rule, a singularity that could never be repeated. Only with him had I been almost constantly aroused; only in his presence I’d felt truly seen, as though his eyes could peel away every impediment of fabric and skin and pierce the flesh underneath, seeking the pulse of my blood. And to be that enslaved by a boy of seventeen was madness, I had thought. He would grow out of it and why not? Surely that was only a phase, that’s what I’d chosen to believe.

“I love how you taste down there,” he whispered, “I can’t get enough.”

“Lucky me,” I replied, kissing the top of his head. His curls were warm and fragrant so I buried my nose into them, which made him giggle.

“Are you happy I came to live with you?” he asked, letting his head rest on my shoulder.

“You remember when I told you that I couldn’t sleep when I returned to New York? I wasn’t being a drama queen like you.” He poked me in the ribs.

“It took me a long time to return to a semblance of normality. I’d wake up in the middle of the night covered in sweat, expecting to find you by my side.”

“Did you take any... pills?”

“Weed, sometimes, or alcohol, but they didn’t help much.”

“My reaction was the opposite of yours: I would have stayed in bed for days if it hadn’t been for school and my parents.”

I pulled him closer and breathed in his scent.

“I don’t want that to happen ever again,” I stated, “Not unless we both agree to it.”

He murmured his assent then his lips sought mine and we stopped speaking for a long while.

 

In bed, we picked up the thread of our reminiscences.

“I always meant to ask you about that time we borrowed your bike and went for that ride with Chiara and her sister,” I said, holding him in my arms. The softness of his skin was intoxicating and so was the feel of his diminutive ass against my crotch. “Did I push it too far? I only wanted to shake you up a bit, since you weren’t talking to me at the time.”

He turned around and hid his flushed face in my chest.

“I sobbed into my pillow that afternoon, cried like a baby.”

I moved down so that I could kiss his closed eyes.

“I am so sorry,” I said, “But if it makes you feel any better, I spent the entire day thinking about you and berating myself for having been so petty. What I’d really wanted was for you to come with us, obviously.”

“You could have asked me.”

“Maybe I was afraid you’d say no.”

“At the time, I believed you were okay with everything, the unassailable, invulnerable type. I thought nothing could frighten you.”

“Now you know otherwise,” I nosed along the line of his jaw.

“Now I know otherwise,” he repeated, threading his fingers through my hair.

 

 


	31. Jealous Guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More layers are peeled away.... 
> 
> Elio's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was partly inspired by "I'll Never Be Young Again" by Daphne Du Maurier, which contains marvellous lines such as the one below:  
> “Darling, you are so lovely, so lovely, come close to me, near; can I do anything to you I like, can I sort of tear you in pieces?”
> 
> The Reading Room I described is the one inside the Wellcome Collection.

We spent the next few days in a state of unreal bliss.

I had moved the rest of my stuff and I’d managed to do that without seeing my cousin once. I’d asked Pierre about him and he’d shrugged his shoulders.

“He said he was going to stay at someplace in Mile End for a while,” he’d replied.

That didn’t mean anything to me, but I trusted Jack to know what he was doing.

As for Oliver and me, we behaved as though we’d always lived together: he worked while I studied, he cooked and I washed up, he had his habits and I had my quirks.

At the Guildhall, we seldom crossed paths but if we did, we pretended not to know each other.  The secret we shared made me feel older and stronger; it enhanced my creativity and intensified our already fierce sexual urges.

I would steal a glance while he was chatting with his colleagues or his students, and I would notice how his smile would falter a little; how his posture would straighten as though I’d been tugging an invisible cord.

Sometimes I’d briefly stare at the closed door behind which he was teaching his class and feel wave upon wave of unslaked desire slam into me, and I’d have to tear myself away lest someone noticed.

The Friday before the London Marathon I chanced upon him as he was drinking coffee from the vending machine with a tall blonde girl in a mini skirt as tiny as Oliver’s shorts had been. She was openly worshipping him: her big green eyes were fastened on his mouth and her body was angled towards his. I was with my friend Lev, with whom I was writing a piano and violin duet piece. He was from Norwich and his name was Leo, but his nickname was due to his obsession with all things Russian. He had no idea who Oliver was but he knew the girl.

“That’s Julie,” he’d snorted, “The poor bloke doesn’t stand a chance. If she wants him, he’s already hers. She’s like one of those natural predators who ensnare their male counterparts, use them and then get rid of them.”

“Is she French?”

“ _Oui_ , my friend; she’s from Brittany,” he replied, as we walked away.

“You slept with her?”

“Might have done, but I was plastered so I’m not sure.”

“Is she a violinist too?”

“A cellist,” he winked, “Much deadlier. Men lust after young cellists.”

“Maybe he doesn’t like blondes,” I said.

Lev chuckled.

“Fat chance,” he replied, “Legs up to here and the way she was looking at him.”

“What way?”

“Like she was the Madonna and he was the baby Jesus.”

I grimaced in disgust and he suddenly became inquisitive.

“Don’t tell me you fancy that vitamin-injected lump?”

“You dislike him because he’s American. My dad is partly American too, you know?”

“Partly makes all the difference.”

“I don’t fancy him anyway,” I lied. “He looks straight.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he argued, “It’s always the ones you don’t suspect.”

After that clichéd insight, he changed subjects and told me about his forthcoming trip to Prague.

 

I was in the Reading Room when I spotted Julie again. It was an odd coincidence, but I’d probably never noticed her before seeing her with Oliver.

I was reclining on one of the floor cushions strewn all over the marble staircase and she was talking to a friend in the niche just below. I could hear every word even though they were whispering.

“And I told him I’d read his book on Heraclitus and that I was inspired by it.”

“Please tell me he didn’t fall for that.”

“But I have read it.”

“Really?”

“Of course not, but I’m going to, which is why I am here. I’ll read it and quote bits of it to him at the party.”

“Just get him drunk and shag him in one of the practice rooms,” the friend said.

“He’s not the type.”

The other girl laughed.

“Yeah, sure,” she said, “Unless he’s gay.”

“He was married plus I don’t get that vibe. He was clearly staring at my legs.”

There was a brief silence then a shuffling noise. When I looked down, they were gone.

 

That evening Oliver was going with Nolan to see that piano that he wanted to purchase and I had decided to go to the pub with Lev and a group of friends.

It was karaoke night and after a few pints I ended up singing Roxy Music’s version of _Jealous Guy_ , hitting the high notes with the confidence of the inebriated.

Next up was Cock Robin’s _Remember The Promise You Made_ , and I wondered whether one of my friends had meddled with the music selection.

I said my goodbyes, put my jacket on and headed home.

 

By the time I turned the key inside the lock, I was lucid enough to know that there was nothing to be jealous about. I also knew that Oliver wouldn’t mind indulging my little fantasy. But I would not dive right into it, because where would be the fun in that?

I found him in the living room, sitting on the couch and reading Langer’s _Problems of Art_ while listening to Tubular Bells.

“Isn’t all this too serious for a Friday night?” I asked, from the threshold.

He looked up from his book and beamed at me.

“Someone had a fun evening,” he said, patting the seat next to him.

He was wearing a pale green shirt, his infamous grey sweatpants and no underwear.

“Did you go to the gym?”

“No, I came home as soon as I was done with Nolan,” he replied.

I went to stand behind him and placed my hands on his shoulders, squeezing hard.

“I am going to get out of these clothes,” I announced, “Be back in ten.”

After relieving myself and having a quick wash, I undressed in the bedroom and put on one of Oliver’s pyjama jackets and nothing else besides. I heard the bathroom door close and waited until he’d returned into the living room. I pocketed the KY and a condom and went to him.

The music had changed to something vaguely oriental and the lights had been dimmed, but he was sitting in the same place, book still in his hands.

Again, I went to stand behind him.

“I listened to an interesting conversation today,” I said, casually.

“Did you?” I felt his shoulders tense up.

“Some girl who has read your book and thinks it’s the greatest thing since sliced bread.”

“Great taste.”

“She also seemed to think that you were appreciating her assets and that you intended to do more than just looking at them.”

He went very still and was silent for a long while. I waited, doing nothing.

“I saw you with your friend,” he said, “That girl’s name is Julie.”

“And you were staring at her legs.”

I was certain that it had never happened.

“Maybe I was hoping you’d notice.”

Of course, I thought, that’s the way he wants it to play out.

“What if she took your seriously and tried to jump you?”

I reached around and started to undo his shirt; I stopped at the third topmost button. Oliver's legs were open and his dick was tenting his pants. I licked my lips, wishing I could already taste his salt on my tongue.

“What if she’d done this?” I hissed, yanking the shirt down and baring his neck and shoulders. I bit the muscle hard enough to bruise; he swore and let his head loll forward. He wanted me to hurt him and I realised that I did not wish to comply. Oliver had gone to buy me a piano, he’d waited for me to return and I only craved his body on mine; simple, uncomplicated lovemaking.

I climbed on the sofa and sat on his lap. He stared at me as I divested him of his shirt.

“You must be tired,” I murmured, caressing his hair and dropping kisses on his cheeks and along the bridge of his nose. His eyes followed my every move:

“A little bit, yeah,” he replied, and the pieces clicked together, at last. His earlier words had brought me back to that night after I’d slept with Marzia. When I’d left that note under Oliver’s door – begging him to talk to me, because I couldn’t stand the silence – I had taken a quick look at him: he’d fallen asleep with his green shirt and his trousers still on; the morning after, he’d joked about the fun I must have had. He had been smiling but his eyes - those big blue eyes I already loved so much - they had been tired and serious. He must have been waiting for my return and had guessed what I’d been doing and with whom.

Despite the fact that we lived together, it was still new and untested, and every tiny bump in the road would be magnified until time polished the jagged edges.

“We don’t have to do anything,” I said, stroking his chest; my open palms drew circles on his ribcage and pectorals. “I could just suck you off, if you wish.”

His cock was standing up and the moist head was sneaking out of his pants. I rubbed it with my thumb and teased the slit. Oliver cursed softly and closed his eyes. I put the wet finger in my mouth and sucked it.

“I want you inside,” he replied, his voice already cracking, “I need you so much.”

I had dreamed of that too, of opening him up with my fingers, roughly; of fucking him with them and with my dick, until he screamed, until he sobbed my name.

Reality was a different beast: it was my man watching me with weary eyes, demanding to be torn to pieces, but deep down yearning for something which was close to the opposite.

I took my time preparing him and when I slipped into him, I held his gaze and kissed his lips and let him feel every single beat of my heart.

 

“You got some on your neck,” I said, licking a glob of semen off Oliver’s throat. “That was quite spectacular, like the fireworks on New Year’s Eve.”

He giggled, but didn’t have the strength to open his eyes. He was spread out on the sofa and I was on top of him, our bodies still twitching with the aftershocks of orgasm.

“It’s your fault,” he croaked, “I’ve never been like that with any of my lovers.”

“Maybe that Julie girl could do the same for you, given half a chance,” I suggested.

He snorted.

“I’m not interested and even if I was, she’s trying way too hard.”

“Would you like her to be coy and mysterious?”

“As long as it’s not directed at me, since it would only waste her time and mine.”

I bit the underside of his jaw.

“My friend Lev said that she’s like a sort of praying mantis.”

“Is that the blond guy with the Mick Jagger lips?”

I nodded.

“We are working on a piece together,” I said, “He plays the violin and is stupidly talented.”

“Did you go to the pub with him?”

“And his friends too,” I replied, “They made me sing; it was horrible.”

“Sounds like you had fun.”

“I wished you were there, but they don’t know we are together.”

“No, they don’t.”

I detected a false note in his replies and guessed its reason.

“Lev’s not interested in me and I wouldn’t care if he was. He’s fun to be around but only taken in small doses. Funny that,” I added, “I found out that it applies to most people: I get bored or annoyed after a while.”

“Your father was always remarking on that,” he said, as he played with my tangled curls, “He wanted you to be more sociable.”

“He wanted me to be more like you,” I countered, “You were the belle of the ball: invited everywhere, admired by everybody.”

“A peacock,” he whispered, “You were right about that, about me.”

I tickled his sides and he let out a full-throated laugh.

“We did have a great time on the couch,” I joked.

“Fantastic,” he agreed, pinching the meat of my ass.

I’d punish him for that.

Later.


	32. Elisa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys finally go to the Soho Clinic.
> 
> Warning for: frank discussions about AIDS.
> 
> Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ELISA, the first test for HIV, did not become available until 1985. This was a blood test that looked for HIV antibodies, which meant that a person had to have been already infected with HIV for three to twelve weeks — the time it takes to develop HIV antibodies — to test positive. That test was also not as accurate as those that would follow — offering a significant number of false positive results. 
> 
> The Duchess of Windsor really died the day before the London Marathon of 1986. Coincidences...

The day before the London Marathon, the Duchess of Windsor died.

Her face was on every front page of every newspaper and once more the past was being dragged out into the light.

“Would you have abdicated to marry the person you loved?” Elio asked me.

“Wasn’t there talk of Edward being a spy for the Germans?”

“You are deflecting,” he said.

The weather had taken a turn for the worse: it was chilly with a biting wind and a livid sky. We had purchased the papers and hurried back home; our plans of going for a walk along the river had been shelved in favour of drinking hot chocolate in bed while reading the Guardian and the Times Literary Supplement.

“I can’t imagine being in a comparable situation,” I replied.

He rolled his eyes.

“Really?” he sighed.

“Okay, okay, you are right,” I continued, pretending that I was slowly catching on, “You are almost as spoilt as royalty and I am divorcing in order to be with you. I’m practically the modern version of Wallis Simpson.”

He elbowed me in the ribs and I retaliated by taking one of his feet hostage in between mine.

“You saw where I was living; you can hardly call me spoilt.”

“Royalty fallen on hard times.”

“You’re such a romantic old soul.”

“Who are you calling old?”

He gave me the once-over.

“You are in great shape but your stamina is not what it used to be.”

After having had sex on the couch, we’d had frottage in the shower and a very satisfactory sixty-nine early that morning. I could have gone again, but I didn’t want to appear greedy.

“You must be joking,” I said, but the shadow of a doubt crept in all the same. He was barely out of his teens and his libido had always been above average.

Elio trailed a finger down my sternum to my navel and below, halting just above the line of my pubic hair.

“Of course I’m joking,” he whispered. “I can smell you from here.”

“And I can _see_ you from here,” I remarked, pointing at his length which was peeking out from under the covers.

“Do you want to do something about it?” he asked. It was a sincere question not a flirty invitation.

“Not right now,” I replied, “Maybe later.”

“Sure,” he said, pulling the sheet up to his chest.

Had I offended him? I was about to explain the rationale behind my answer when he started talking about the kidnapping of a journalist in Beirut and other news items; we agreed on most things and I loved the animated manner in which he discussed: his hands were as eloquent as his words and his eyes shone with anger or merriment.

“I want to go to the Soho clinic today,” I said, at one point.

He had been talking about the revised version of The Magus and blinked repeatedly at the unexpected interruption.

“It’s going to be crowded... on a Saturday.”

“I don’t want to wait any more.”

“Can’t wait to get your dick wet?”

“Idiot,” I chided him, without any heat, “I want to feel it without that extra layer, yes, but that’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“What did you mean?”

He was being spiky on purpose and I cursed myself for having been unintentionally brusque.

“I’m pledging myself to your Royal Highness,” I said, “Exclusively and for life.”

“Will you give it a rest?” he remonstrated while stifling a smile.

“Only if you say yes.”

“About going to the clinic?”

“Among other things.”

“I almost wish I had a signet ring I could make you kiss,” he joked.

It shouldn’t have sounded as sexy as it did.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Elio said, blushing prettily.

“So what if you did?” I stroked the dusky blotch on his cheekbone.

 _So what, so what, so what_ , I thought, defiantly.

 

The Dean Street Clinic was very different from the few hospitals I had visited back home: it didn’t reek of disinfectant nor was it manned by doctors and nurses wearing white coats.

There were black leather armchairs and banquettes in the waiting room and everybody was dressed in casual clothes. The reed sticks on the desk diffused a fragrance of sandalwood and patchouli.

We were asked to fill in a form and to take a seat by a robust, bearded man who had the bushiest eyebrows I’d ever laid eyes on.

“They look like fat caterpillars,” I whispered in Elio’s ear.

He pressed a finger to his own brows.

“Do you think that I should pluck mine?” he asked, frowning. “If you find them ridiculous-”

“You are not touching them unless they bother you. Don’t mess with perfection.”

I heard a muffled snigger and was ready to cast a death glare in the direction of the culprit when I realised that it came from an emaciated young man with a crew cut and violet shadows around his brown eyes.

“Sorry, mate,” he said, “Didn’t mean to take the piss. It’s just that Jonesy’s eyebrows never fail to get a mention. They should rename the place after him.”

“Is he a nurse?” Elio asked.

“Nah, he’s a volunteer. They do get proper paid staff on working days, but on weekends it’s them charitable blokes.”

We introduced ourselves and he shook our hands with fervour; his palms were dry and icy, despite the warm temperature of the room.

His name was Andy and he was there for a check-up.

“My numbers are all over the place,” he said, referring to his T-cells count.

It was obvious that he was trying to minimise the gravity of his situation and that underneath the bravado he was terrified. We didn’t want to pry and anyway we had our forms to complete. We did so in silence, feeling Andy’s preoccupied gaze fixed on us. As soon as we were done, we handed them to the bearded receptionist, whose name – according to the pin on his jacket – was Steven Jones. He informed us that waiting time would be about thirty minutes.

“I’m next in line,” Andy said, when we returned to our seats.

“You two been together long?” he asked, and we didn’t have the heart to behave as reservedly as we’d have done in a normal social situation.

“No, but we met almost three years ago in Italy,” Elio replied.

“You look more French than Italian” the young man said, “My ex was French. His name was Marcel, but I always called him Mark.”

The question was out there, but neither of us wanted to verbalise it.

“He dumped me when he found out I was sick,” he continued, with a bitter smile, “Had a girlfriend back in Lille and decided to get back together with her. I’d have done the same in his shoes, probably.”

I felt as though someone had just stabbed me in the guts.

“The Lizzy’s not always spot on,” he added, and snorted out a giggle when he saw my puzzled expression. “The test’s called Elisa, but since we got really chummy I’ve nick-named it Lizzy.”

I had read about it and was aware of its unreliability and the high risk of false positive results.

“Mark got a positive at first, but when he tested again three months later the Lizzy was negative. Lucky French bastard,” he smiled broadly, with no hint of malice.

I didn’t dare look at Elio, but I noticed how his fingers nervously fiddled with the hair tie around his wrist.

“Do you live with your family?”

“My sister,” Andy replied, “It’s a bore, but beggars can’t be, right?”

I nodded and he slapped my back in a friendly manner. I was paralysed by my own inadequacy and Elio was apparently speechless.

We were saved by the nurse who came to collect Andy: they evidently knew each other well and he cracked a joke which made her chuckle.

“You okay?” I said, taking Elio’s fidgety hand in mine.

“Me okay,” he replied, and there was a tremor in his voice which I hated with my whole being.

“Were you alone the other times?”

The mental image of Elio taking the test on his own made me nauseous.

“Just once,” he replied, gripping my fingers.

“Never again,” I said, firmly, “We do this together, no matter what.”

He nodded repeatedly; his jaw was clenched tight and a mass of curls had fallen over his eyes.

“I wouldn’t behave like Andy’s boyfriend,” I added, “You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

I wanted to hold him and comfort him, but that wasn’t the time or the place. For once, it wasn’t the fear of being judged or called ugly names, but the unwillingness to appear to boast of our connection in front of those who, like Andy, were facing what probably amounted to a death sentence.

“Give it to me,” I said, indicating the hair tie. He stared at me as though I’d gone crazy.  “Just do it,” I insisted.

He took it off, all the while throwing me glances which expressed his incredulity. I brought it to my lips and kissed it several times.

“It’s not a signet ring, but it will have to do,” I said.

I will never forget Elio’s bright, childlike smile till the day I die.

 

After our ordeal at the clinic, we both needed a drink.

Conveniently, there was a bar just around the corner.

“They must have done it on purpose,” I said, but Elio shook his head, amused.

“This is Soho,” he argued, “Aside from strip joints, sex shops and theatres, it’s basically just restaurants, pubs and bars.”

It was early, so there were only a dozen male customers and the music wasn’t as loud as it would be later.

We ordered our drinks and sat at a table by the window which faced the street; we needed to see people going about their business, doing their Saturday afternoon shipping, chatting and laughing with their friends, arms wrapped around waists, holding hands, smoking cigarettes, being in rude health and alive, so very alive.

The waiter brought our G&Ts and a bowl of pistachios.

“Your favourites,” I remarked, “Does he know you?”

“Maybe,” he said, flirty, but then he caught himself doing it and turned serious, “I didn’t sleep around that much. There were a few boys, but I never took stupid risks. When I was drunk or high, I never, you know-”

I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure that I did _know_.

“I just used my mouth or my hands,” he clarified, “Only did the other stuff when I was sober enough to see what I was doing. And even then, it wasn’t that often, not even close to Pierre’s numbers. He used to laugh at me and suggest that I was trying to regain my virginity.”

“Remind me to punch him next time I see him.”

He laughed.

“Pierre can be a real pain in the ass, but he was there when I needed a shoulder to cry on.”

“I’m glad he was there for you.”

I caressed his face and he leaned against the palm of my hand.

“Is this worth it for you still, despite all the risks?”

“It’s not like I didn’t know about them before.”

“But it’s different when you see them up close, when it’s no longer a statistic but a real person with a name and a face.”

“I lived in New York, Elio, not in the middle of nowhere.”

“You were married to a woman,” he argued, “You still are; sheltered and safe.”

“Why are you doing this?”

I knew why, but I wanted to hear it from his lips.

“If my test result was positive, I wouldn’t expect you to stay with me.”

The blood rushed to my head so fast I finally understood the meaning of the expression “seeing red”.

“What kind of rat do you think I am? And I suppose you’d ditch me if it was the other way round.”

“It’s different: you have a wife,” he replied, “You could-”

“What, go back to her as though nothing’s happened while you are suffering and fearing for your life?”

I felt like punching him instead of Pierre.

“I’m not saying that you’d do that; I know you wouldn’t, but I only wanted you to know that you could and I wouldn’t judge you.”

“You only wanted me to know,” I repeated, before draining my glass. “These words usually mean trouble for me.”

“Do they?”

He stroked my thigh, lightly, uncertainly.

“Yeah,” I replied, parting my legs to signal that I was giving him permission, “There was this boy who said them to me one summer afternoon and then wished he hadn’t.”

“Silly boy,” he said, tracing the inner seam of my jeans with his finger.

“I was the cowardly one, but he didn’t let me get away with it.”

“Was he very determined?”

“You could say that,” I gasped, as his fingernail grazed the fly of my pants.

“What did he do?”

“I’m not sure I’m allowed to say.”

“You are keeping his secret?” he murmured, “Such a loyal friend.”

“Yes, yes, very, so very loyal,” I managed to stammer, as he cupped my crotch; it was the same gesture, but it wasn’t the same Elio. He was sipping his drink with pretend indifference, while his hand worked me so thoroughly I was brought close to orgasm more than once. I let him because I wanted him to, but had I questioned the opportunity of his actions, I was in no doubt that he’d have convinced me, that one look from him would have started any number of fires and conflagrations.


	33. Before The Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunday, before the party. 
> 
> Oliver's POV
> 
> Warning for: recreational drug use (weed)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title of the chapter: misquote of Rattigan's After The Dance

 

I should have foreseen that it would happen that night. Perhaps I suspected it, but I was never very brave at facing the eventuality of impending disaster. This may sound unduly tragic since no blood was shed, but the viper’s poison is deadly yet relatively clean.

The Sunday was, much like the Saturday which had preceded it, windy, chilly and rainy: we were back to normal British spring weather.

I spoke to Will over the phone: Frieda’s parents were visiting and so was Will’s elder brother with his wife. They wanted to cheer him up and distract him, while all he wanted was to take a couple of pills, sleep like the dead and wake up on Monday morning.

“If you and Elio want to join the gang,” he said, “You are more than welcome. Bring whisky and some Diazepam, if you don’t mind.”

I laughed.

“I wouldn’t make it past the front door,” I joked, “And anyway, I’m afraid that Elio wants to go see the marathon.”

“Traitor,” Will hissed, “Traitor. Are you going with him?”

“He will be with other students from the Guildhall,” I replied.

“And you are not out yet.”

“Not as a Professor who’s sleeping with a student. It wouldn’t be very conducive to getting good references for my next job application.”

“Probably not,” he agreed, “Even though they claim to be open minded, that might be one prejudice too far. Any plans?”

“Marking papers, going to the gym.”

“What about the party?”

I sighed.

“We’ll go separately. Nolan and a few of the other teachers will be there. I don’t plan to stay long. A couple of drinks then I’ll take my leave.”

“Free alcohol and music,” he said, “I doubt that you’ll stick to your resolution. You’ll be soused, he’ll be soaked: I predict someone will end up getting their rocks off in the loos. And pop goes your curriculum vitae.”

“I have absolutely no intention of having sex in the toilets at the Barbican. Those cubicles are only meant for pygmies.”

“I want to say something but it’s too dirty. Can I blame the painkillers?”

“Just say it,” I chuckled.

“It’s gone now,” he sounded deflated, “Filth and genius demand immediacy.”

“That’s nice.”

“It is, isn’t it? Almost like an epigram by Wilde.”

I heard voices in the distance.

“I have to go,” he said, “No rest for the wicked. Call me tomorrow to let me know if you are still in one piece.”

Elio came in just as I put the phone down.

“I’m ready to go,” he announced. He was wearing a dark blue K-Way windbreaker jacket over a pair of stone-washed jeans.

“Aren’t you gonna take your umbrella?”

“It will be too crowded; we’d poke people in the eye.”

The hood was pulled tight around Elio’s face, the drawstrings tied into a bow under his chin: he looked like a child. I kissed the tip of his nose and the freckles on his lips.

“I wish you could come too,” he said, pouting.

“I don’t,” I smiled, “I’m too old to stand in the rain for hours.”

“You could train for next year’s marathon,” he said, “If you are still in London.”

He brought his mouth to mine, teasingly.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, and he bit down on my bottom lip.

We fooled around for a little while and then he left.

 

I was changing our bed sheets when the doorbell rang. It can only be one person, I thought, and this time I was right.

Jack wasn’t carrying an umbrella either but he wasn’t in the least wet.

“Has it stopped raining?” I asked.

Predictably, he ignored me. He sat down at the breakfast table and I offered him coffee, which he absent-mindedly sipped, behaving as though I wasn’t there.

I went back to the bedroom and resumed my chores. I wasn’t going to beg him to talk; he knew where to find me if he needed me. The minutes had elapsed and I’d almost forgotten about him. I was tidying up the books and papers on my desk when he spoke; he made me jump.

“Have you ever thought about being somebody else?”

“When I was a kid; all the time,” I replied, “That’s what kids do, right?”

Not him, going by the blankness of his expression.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Why don’t you say what you mean to say, for once?”

I was growing fed up with his enigmatic act.

“Was it a boy or a girl? Must have been a boy, older than you, confident, clever-”

“Really none of your business whether I did or didn’t.”

He went on, ignoring the interruption.

“A boy gone bad, but not really rotten, just enough to be interesting,” he recited,

I wasn’t going to tell him about Flynn, not before I’d told Elio. I could have done so already; I’d only forgotten about it.

“Hero-worship is also very common among young boys and girls.”

I suspected Jack never had and never would suffer from it.

“The object of such adoration may get used to it and find it impossible to live without it.”

“You are alluding to a specific instance.”

He rolled his eyes, reminding me of his cousin.

“Of course,” he exclaimed.

“Then why don’t you get to the point?”

“Because you wouldn’t like the point and because it’s not my story to tell.”

“Why bring it up in the first place?”

“So that when the moment comes, you will be forewarned and forearmed.”

I stared at him, utterly uncomprehending.

“Like when you read a detective story already knowing the identity of the killer,” he said.

“Because you’ve guessed it?”

“No, because some smart-ass mentioned it in the introduction to another book,” he replied.

“You certainly are a smart-ass.”

“But I have very good grass,” he replied, handing me the stuff in question, “And I do not spoil other people’s fun.”

“Are you coming to the party tonight?” I asked, but he was already on his way out.

Annoying brat, I thought, but did not succeed in disliking him. His saving grace - aside from being unwittingly funny – was that he did not pass judgment on people or situations. I had been brought up by parents who did nothing but judge and assess: was that socially acceptable, what would the neighbours say, why waste time on the wrong sort of friends?

They’d have disliked Elio even if he’d only been an acquaintance, but what would they have made of Jack? It was harder to say. I had a vague notion that he could charm anybody if he wished to, but whether he would bother was another matter.

 

Elio came back mid-afternoon looking like a sodden puppy: his teeth were chattering and his fingernails were blue.

“How did it go?” I asked, as I helped him out of his soggy clothes.

“They made it to the end,” he replied in between shivers, “Which was more than we expected.”

“They” were a group of students and Guildhall employees who had taken part in the race.

“No one’s fainted or broken anything?”

Elio sniggered.

“Nothing’s happened that a few drinks won’t put right. What have you been doing?”

I had decided to stay at home and do what I usually did on a rainy Sunday afternoon: clean the house, read, prepare my lessons; I told him about his cousin’s visit, but omitted the weird conversation which he’d instigated.

I ran a bath and threw in a handful of lavender soaking salts.

“Will you join me?” he asked, but I let him relax and I washed his hair once he’d stopped trembling and his cheeks had regained some colour.

He told me about his day, the people they’d befriended along the way, the crappy sandwiches they'd had for lunch and the incredibly powerful legs and toned bodies of those who had won the race: a Japanese man and a Norwegian woman.

“Grete Waitz’s so thin,” he marvelled, “She looks so frail but she made it even with the wind being so strong.”

“Long-distance runners are all extremely slender.”

He looked at me - his foam-covered head made his eyes seem enormous – and slipped a finger into the opening of my shirt.

“I don’t want you to lose that much weight,” he stated, “I like you meaty.”

“Do you?”

He made an affirmative sound: very Italian, very French, very sexy. He went underwater and re-emerged as shiny and sleek as a marine creature.

“I love it that you can crush me with your weight.”

“I’m not that heavy.”

“But there’s a lot to play with,” he insisted, grabbing a fistful of chest hairs.

“You are getting me all wet.”

“Just your top or your bottom too?”

“Such a dirty little mouth,” I murmured, and leaned closer to brush my lips against his. His tongue darted out and forced its way into my mouth. I responded by clutching him by the throat and kissing him deep and with a lot of teeth.

“Come on, come on,” he growled, and pulled me up and into the tub.

“Let me undress,” I pleaded, but he was impatient and I didn’t really care about my clothes when I could have him under me, on top of me, all around me.

I straddled his torso; he pulled down my pants and mouthed at the crease of my groin. My dick was jumping at every flick of his tongue.

“It’s talking to me,” he joked, in a sultry voice.

“It wants in,” I replied, already short of breath. Elio was kneading my ass with one hand and stroking my balls with the other. I combed my fingers through his hair, trying to force my heart to slow down.

“Poor darling,” he cooed, as he wrapped his slick lips around my cock-head. My hips jolted, pushing more of my length into his mouth. He moaned with the pleasure of it and took even more of it until I felt him gag. His fingers were now stroking my shaft while his lips and tongue worked at my glans; it was sloppy, slurping, relentless ecstasy. I wanted to come down his throat and all over his face; I couldn’t have picked one to save my life. There was so much of it I didn’t have to choose. He let me spray his cheeks, nose, mouth and chin, gazing at me through hooded eyes. I cursed and begged and cried out his name, and only after the first spasms had died down, I realised he had stuck a finger into me and massaged me from the inside.

“I’ll never get used to this,” I croaked, delicately washing my spunk off his skin, “You’re like a drug.”

“Speaking of which,” he smirked.

“I thought I’d return the favour first,” I said, rubbing his already hard nipples.

“There doesn’t have to be a before and after,” he argued.

I had already rolled one, so I just padded to the living room to fetch it, uncaring of the puddles that formed along the way.

We sat on either side of the tub, my feet on the rim, bracketing his shoulders; his knees to his chest: the weed was first class and we were high in no time; nothing major, just a bit of fun.

“Joints always make me horny,” Elio said, turning his head and kissing my ankle.

“You are always horny,” I giggled.

“So says the man who just drowned me in his spunk,” he threw his head back and exhaled a plume of smoke. His neck was like a highway of sinful promise. I wanted to lick it for hours, till the vibrations of his breathing were inscribed on my tongue.

“You complaining?” I asked, stealing the reefer from between his fingers directly with my lips. He looked me straight in the eye, “I adore sucking you dry,” he whispered.

“Same here,” I said, watching his pupils dilate and his lips redden.

“What if I asked you to let me use you?”

I couldn’t be getting hard again, but my nether parts were clearly very enthusiastic.

“I’d never tell you to stop,” I replied.

He suddenly stood up; the water sluiced down his body, shimmery drops like a myriad diamonds. I got on my knees and buried my face in his crotch. I was so far gone I did not realise the reefer had disappeared again; his voice was whispering a litany of obscenities and pleas. I dared to glance at his face and nearly blacked out: he was licking and biting his lips and his cheeks were flushed and hollow. His eyes were so dark I doubted he could see me at all.

“Open wide,” he ordered and I felt the bliss of it like gold flowing through my veins. I didn’t have thoughts or words, only yes, yes, yes, and yes again.

My mouth was full of him, of his flesh and his semen, his scent and his taste, until I felt him shake and scream; until he collapsed and fell into me, spent, magnificent and mine.


	34. Twist of Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver's POV.
> 
> I'm really, really, really sorry....
> 
> Warning for: ANGST.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to post this tomorrow, but this chapter wrote itself.

This time, I was the first one to leave.

Elio and his friends were due to arrive later and they expected most of the older contingent – teachers and other members of staff – to be gone by then.

I didn’t mind and had it not been expected of me to show up, I would have gone to the gym instead; I certainly wasn’t looking forward to an entire evening of watching Elio pretending not to know him. He was going to get hit on, that was par for the course, and even though I trusted him, I wasn’t going to like it.

The dress code was casual-chic, so I wore a blazer over black denims rather than a suit.

“Are you really wearing that t-shirt?” Elio asked, jutting his chin out in the direction of said item. It was a grey long-sleeved top with a v-neck.

“Too informal?”

“Too tight, too revealing, too sexy,” he argued, chewing his cheek.

“I’m not going on the prowl,” I replied, smiling, “Just having a few drinks with a bunch of colleagues.”

“That Julie will try her luck,” he insisted, “The way you look-”

I gazed at myself in the mirror, pretending to assess the situation.

“Freshly and thoroughly fucked,” I said, “Which is completely accurate.”

He grimaced in mock-pain.

“You really shouldn’t say stuff like that.”

“Vulgar?”

“Juvenile,” he said, “And very tempting.”

“We agreed you wouldn’t come closer than three feet.”

That was our rule for the duration of the evening, since proximity would lead almost certainly to touching, and from that to making out like there was no tomorrow. I did not trust him or myself.

“I had not realised we were already on the clock.”

“My clothes are on and my hair has been styled. You cannot mess me up now.”

I was daring him hoping he would disobey, but he chose to take me seriously.

“Okay,” he sighed, “Just go then, so that I can get dressed too.”

He wasn’t telling me what he was going to wear.

“It’s a surprise,” he’d said, with an impish grin.

“I swear to god: if you turn up wearing slashed jeans and a vest, I will never forgive you. It will be difficult enough already without the added temptation.”

“Cross my heart,” he’d replied, drawing an imaginary cross on his chest.

 

Outside, the wind was still raging but the rain had abated and the sky was clear and punctured with stars. I lighted a cigarette and took a shortcut to the main entrance of the Barbican.

I was feeling nervous but didn’t quite know why. My body was still tingling long after the fantastic sex we’d had, and the prospect of secrecy, while daunting, was also somewhat exciting. 

The party was being held on the roof terrace, but the adjacent reception room had also been opened up, so that the entire floor was reserved but for the art gallery, which was shut after 6 pm anyway.

As soon as I got out of the lift, I heard the music. The song was Spandau Ballet’s Gold and I found myself humming along without realising it.

The bar had been set up at the far end of the terrace, which was like a giant veranda under a glass roof. There were plants everywhere and with the colourful lighting and the raised platform in the middle, it wasn’t a million miles away from Le Danzing.

I joined the line to get a drink and moment later I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Always the tallest bloke in the room,” Nolan said, chuckling.

He was in the company of Susanne Mayer, the Austrian PA of the Vice-Principal.

She was a blonde curvy woman in her later thirties and I could see that he was hoping to get lucky that night. She shook my hand and smiled broadly, reminding me of the wolf in a fairytale. She was going to eat him alive, but I didn’t think he’d mind in the least.

We bought pints of Heineken - the only beer on tap - and found a table by the side of the bar.

“Better stay near, so we won’t have problems refilling,” he said, and she agreed enthusiastically. I was sure that between the two of them they’d drink me under the table in no time.

We chatted in enthusiastic bouts, raising our voices because of the loud music. People came to our table to talk to us, there were jokes and much laughter, and after the third pint I started to feel relaxed and happy.

Then _the song_ came on and I could not help myself.

_There's an army on the dance floor  
It's a fashion with a gun, my love_

I was up and dancing before I could think twice. The lights had been dimmed and the terrace had filled up. Elio and his friends had not yet arrived, or at least I had not seen them. I’d taken off my blazer and rolled up my sleeves and was giving it all I got, when I felt a body sidle up to me, his front to my back.

I turned and, of course, there he was: his hair was shorter and he was – or so it seemed – wearing eye-liner and mascara. He was - undeniably - a very handsome young man, but despite knowing very little about Riccardo, something in me recoiled at his sight. We were surrounded by people who knew me and Will Carey and Elio and the last thing I wanted was to appear conspicuous in any way.

I ignored him and danced away from him, moving closer to where Nolan, Susan and two guys I knew by sight were swaying to the music. I stayed on for the next couple of songs, but the well had been poisoned already.

At the end of Blondie’s Call Me, I’d made up my mind to leave. I had to piss first, so I staggered out of that stifling heat, blinking as my eyes readjusted to the brighter lights. There were groups of people everywhere now and the noise was deafening. The toilets on that floor were too crowded so I ran down the stairs to those on the first, which as far as I remembered were always half-deserted.

I locked the door and after having done the deed, I washed my hands and face in the sink. In that greenish light, I looked dishevelled and gaunt. I ran a hand through my hair and did my best to smooth it down.

And then, like in a cheap horror movie, I saw the lock being turned from the outside. I knew this could be done with pliers and it seemed so absurd I nearly burst into laughter, but anger prevailed.

“What the fuck?” I hissed, as I flung the door open.

He was unruffled, as though it were normal to try and break into occupied toilets.

“I wanted to talk to you alone.”

“And I don’t want to listen,” I said, walking past him into the narrow white corridor. There was a rectangular mirror covering one of the walls and in it I could see his exquisite profile, sharp as an etching.

“You and Elio,” he went on, “It will never last.”

I could have slapped him, but I was sure that he’d have liked that. Besides, his game was so obvious no one would ever fall for it. I decided to give him some rope and see how quickly he’d use it to tie a noose around his own neck.

“And why is that? Come on, enlighten me.”

He guided me outside: in the dark alcove between two concrete columns they had placed a plush divan which looked almost like a love-seat. I appreciated the involuntary irony.

“You got a cigarette?”

I gave him the pack and the lighter; he took one out and lighted it while making eye contact: a shameless, piercing, cat-like gaze.

“You think I’m jealous, don’t you?”

“It has crossed my mind, yes.”

“You couldn’t be more wrong.”

Yeah, sure, I thought. That rope was looping up just nicely.

I remembered Jack’s words: forewarned and forearmed.

“Let’s see,” I started, “Elio had a crush on you: older boy, smart, good looking, a little more experienced. We have all been there and done that. Life goes on, people grow up: you’ll have to get used to it.”

He blew a cloud of smoke in my face and chuckled: his laugh was uncannily like Elio’s; the same breathless gargle, the same posture of neck and shoulders.

“Has he told you about the things that really matter?”

I did my utmost not to react: thankfully, I’d been a poker player, so I knew how to do that.

“We have talked about many things,” I replied. I folded my hands in my lap, in order not to hit him, but also to make sure they wouldn’t start shaking.

“And he showed you his secret place, where he’d never taken anybody before you. The water is freezing, isn’t it? Even at the height of summer,” he shook his head.

“No place on this earth is truly secret,” I said, calmly.

“I bet he got you to kiss him on that spot. And I also bet that you did it the first time he took you there.”

Maybe after I’d left him, Elio had taken his revenge by stamping all over the memories of our time together. To me, those memories were sacred, but I could understand his rage and excuse his indiscretion.

“I don’t care if Elio told you about us. He had every right to be angry after the way I treated him.”

Again, he laughed.

“No one told me about it. You can ask him if you don’t believe me.”

“Are you saying that he’d done that before with somebody else? That’s not the end of the world,” I said, although it was, a bit.

“What I am saying is that I did _that_ with him. That was my spot. All mine. Two years before he met you, I showed it to him. I kissed him. Those were my moves that he copied to the letter. You are nothing but a second-hand emotion to him.”

My heart was thudding at the back of my throat.

“He was so young,” I murmured, “It’s only natural that he’d copy someone older.”

“But you weren’t the first one he tried it on. There was this girl, Cristiana: I’d dated her and got bored, but Elio, he was so keen on her, you can’t imagine. A tall blonde girl from Trento; he’s always liked them big and fair-haired. He used to stalk us; once I even caught him spying on us as we went at it. Does that sound plausible?”

It did, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of replying.

“Like I said, he was young, he wanted to experiment.”

“People don’t change, not really and not after a certain age. I have known Elio since we were kids and he’s always been restless. He fidgets and his mind soars and flits about, like a butterfly. He bores quickly and needs constant stimulation, intellectual and... otherwise. He also likes girls _, really_ likes them.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

My hands had balled into fists of their own volition.

“Unlike you, I mean. You pretended to, but he truly swings both ways and he will need girls again, sooner or later.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“I’m only trying to spare you years of heartache and disillusion,” he replied, “And maybe also save your marriage.”

I grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him, hard.

“Don’t ever mention my wife or Elio again,” I shouted into his face, then shoved him aside and walked away. I knew that he was following me, but I didn’t care. I needed to find Elio and to talk to him, possibly without breaking cover.

I bounded up the stairs and when I reached the third floor was almost overwhelmed by the noise and smoky, humid air. The entire place had turned into a disco and for a while I couldn’t see anything clearly, just shapes and colours, but no faces. That went on for what seemed like ages until something happened, and of course it could only have been that. A film-maker couldn’t have scripted it any better.

 _Time like silent stares_  
_With no apology_  
_Move towards the stars_  
_And be my only one_

 _Reach into the light_  
_And feel love's gravity_  
_That pulls you to my side_  
_Where you should always be_

I had danced that very song with Chiara and I felt an ominous dread like an icy band around my ribcage.

I pushed people aside and rushed toward the dance-floor, much like Dante wading through the bodies of the damned to get to the next circle of hell.

And so did I.

At first, I did not recognise him. He was wearing tight leather pants and a frilly pink shirt with ruffles on the collar. How strange that through that fog and despite that heaving throng, I could still see him so clearly, as though he’d been illuminated by a spotlight.

By some cruel twist of fate, I was staring at a version of myself, entwined to a tall blonde girl, whom I suddenly realised was Julie.

They were not unlike Chiara and I, their faces an inch apart, staring into each other’s eyes, their bodies glued together, swaying, enraptured.

I was going to be sick.

“I did warn you,” Riccardo’s voice was in my ear, “Fickle, capricious, inconstant.”


	35. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are still in darkness, but walking towards the light...
> 
> Oliver's POV
> 
> (I promise that next chapter there will be Elio's POV too)
> 
> Lots of swearing, just fyi

 

In fiction, the betrayed lover usually strides up to his cheating partner and makes a scene.  
I wasn’t even sure that my heart was still beating.

The taste of bile in my mouth was the trigger that forced me to move away. I turned round, ready to shove Riccardo aside, but he wasn’t there any longer.

I staggered towards the staircase so that I could go back to the toilets. As soon as I locked the door, I bent over the toilet bowl and spent my next twenty minutes heaving and retching and feeling like the world was ending.

When I was done, I washed my shaky hands and splashed cold water on my face. I gazed at myself in the mirror, wondering about the man I had been until twenty minutes ago. The only thing I knew was that I needed to get out of there and that I’d left my blazer up on the third floor. Luckily, my wallet and keys were in the pockets of my jeans. I’d probably be cold, but it would take me no more than ten minutes to get home.

Outside, the wind had stopped and it was milder than it had been during the day. I decided that I needed to think and in order to do that, I had to take a walk. I’d used the exit on the library floor, so I wasn’t far from the Tube station. I turned towards the Museum of London and from there re-entered the labyrinthine alleys of the Barbican estate. I kept hearing Riccardo’s words and seeing Elio’s face and his body, perfectly in tune with someone who wasn’t me. It wasn’t a big deal, none of that really mattered, except that to me it did; he was aware of my needs and I’d thought I knew all of his, but perhaps he couldn't summon the courage to admit that, while I was the only man he wanted, he still missed women. He had slept with Marzia when we first got together and while in Rome, he’d been flirty with a number of pretty girls. Admittedly, he’d been drunk and couldn’t remember having done it, but this afforded me only scant consolation.

I didn’t know how long I’d been wandering aimlessly when I saw that I’d been going round in circles: I was by the lake outside the side entrance of the Centre.

I sat down on a stone bench as far as possible from the doors and stared at the water, and farther away, at the church of St. Giles. It reminded me of that time when Elio and I has smoked on the terrace, and he’d danced to the tune of that playful version of Nature’s Boy.

_There was a boy_  
_A very strange enchanted boy_  
_They say he wandered very far, very far_  
_Over land and sea_  
_A little shy and sad of eye_  
_But very wise was he_  
_And then one day_  
_A magic day he passed my way_  


I sang the lyrics in the silence of my mind, staring at the livid pool and thinking of Celan, how he must have felt the moment before he jumped to his death from a Parisian bridge.

I didn’t know who Elio really was: had he been acting all along, not out of malice, but of a desire to imitate the boy he’d worshipped a long time before he met me?

Riccardo could have invented everything, but he was too clever for that.

And the clincher was that Elio had refused to tell me about Riccardo; it was the past, he’d said, as though that no longer mattered. How wrong he’d been.

“Oliver, is that you?”

After that long silence, the voice sounded as loud as a gunshot.

The man was dressed elegantly in a suit and lace up shoes. I’d never met him outside the gym.

“Hi Tim,” I replied, “What are you doing here?”

“I attended a function in Moorgate and was heading home. What about you?”

“You don’t want to know.”

He sat down next to me and pulled out a pack of Philip Morris.

“Want one?”

I nodded and he lit two cigarettes. We smoked for a little while in silence.

“Have you ever had one of those nightmares in which you are with a friend and suddenly their mask falls off and they try to stab you?”

He gazed at me, intently.

“Yeah, it’s terrifying. Is that what happened tonight?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and squeezed my eyes shut.

“Maybe,” I replied, with a shiver.

“Here, take mine,” he said, removing his jacket and wrapping it round my shoulders.

I wanted to protest, but I did not have the energy.

“Why don’t you come to my place for a cup of tea? I’m at Defoe House.”

It was literally two minutes away.

“It’s a friendly offer, no hidden motives,” he added, when he caught me hesitating.

“Okay, yes, tea would be great.”

I followed him up the cement staircase and to the green door which led to the lifts.

Tim’s apartment was smaller than mine, but it was tidy and furnished with taste. The kitchen cabinets were pillar-box red and all the surfaces were clean and shiny.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t feel like it. If you take care of the kettle, I’ll go get out of these clothes because I’ve been wearing them since this morning.”

“Sure,” I replied, feeling like I’d entered a parallel universe, because this was not where I was supposed to be.

When he returned, Tim was wearing a blue tracksuit.

“I could lend you one,” he said, but I remembered borrowing Pierre’s sweatpants and the memory made my stomach clench unpleasantly.

“I’m alright,” I replied, as the kettle switch went off.

He prepared two mugs of tea, adding sugar and milk to his; I took mine black.

“I don’t want to pry,” he said, as we sipped our drinks at the kitchen table, “But I guess it mustn’t be easy to live as a gay man after having been married.”

“This is only the third time we've met and we haven’t talked much before.”

“I told you that I’d noticed you at the gym,” he smiled, “You had a wedding ring then you didn’t and you told me you were seeing a man. Well, I did suggest it and you said I was right.”

“Are you a detective, by any chance?”

He laughed.

“I wish,” he replied, “Just a mundane insurance broker. Attention to detail is key in my line of work. What’s yours?”

I told him and he looked truly surprised.

“I would never have guessed that.”

“Why, do I look like your idea of the typical dumb American?”

He smirked.

“No, yes, maybe a bit,” he made a gesture with his index and thumb to indicate a small quantity. “I thought you were some big shot property developer.”

I made a face and he raised his hands in mock-surrender.

“Okay, sorry, my apologies. How’s the tea?”

“Just what the doctor ordered.”

“Speaking of which,” he said, “You feeling alright?”

“My head’s splitting. I should really go home.”

He must have heard the indecision in my tone.

“I have buckets of paracetamol and a brand new sofa-bed which hasn’t been used yet.”

“I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

“You won’t. And I promise to behave.”

“Do you keep your promises?”

I wasn’t really joking, even though I grinned to take the sting off.

“You know the function I told you about?” I nodded and he went on, “It was an HIV fundraiser. One of my mates – his name’s George - is sick and had to leave his job. His family wanted nothing to do with him since he came out.”

My troubles seemed even sillier now.

“I’m so sorry.”

“You see why sex isn’t exactly on my mind at the moment.”

“No, of course not,” I said, “I’ll take those sweatpants then; and the painkillers too.”

“Sure,” he smiled broadly, “And there’s a spare toothbrush in the large drawer underneath the sink. The paracetamol is in there too.”

He showed me the bathroom and told me that he’d leave the sweatpants on the sofa-bed, together with bed sheets, pillows and blankets.

I thanked him and he took his leave. He had to get up early in the morning since – unlike me – he was going to work. In the bathroom, I didn’t look at my face in the mirror; I cleaned up, grabbed a couple of pills and went to the living room, where I was greeted by the sight of a leather couch big enough to accommodate my entire frame. It was a pleasant surprise, since I’d assumed I’d have to be uncomfortable. I prepared the makeshift bed, put on the sweatpants, swallowed the pills and fell asleep as soon as I closed my eyes.

I woke up early but Tim had already left. He’d prepared coffee and left a note with his telephone number and an invitation to use the place as though it were my home; he wrote that I should just click the front door shut on my way out.

 

The night’s sleep had done me a lot of good and in the light of day, everything seemed absurdly unimportant: so what if Elio had a past? He wasn’t born when he met me. And he should enjoy himself with his friends; he wasn’t to become a recluse just because we were together.

I opened the door intending to wake him up with a kiss, but as soon as I stepped in, he descended on me like one of the Furies from Iphigenia in Tauris.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he shouted. He was still in the clothes he’d worn at the party and his face was tired and drawn. “Who did you sleep with, uh?” he growled, and buried his nose in the 'v' of my t-shirt. “I can smell him on you. Or was that a she?”

“Stop it,” I said, pushing him away, “Nothing happened.”

He snorted loudly.

“You disappeared completely, like, poof, into thin air! Nolan was asking everybody if they’d seen you, because your blazer was still there.”

“I met your friend,” I said, thinking that it was time to lay our cards on the table, “Riccardo Malaspina.”

He flinched and his mouth opened and closed several times; no sound came out.

“What did you do?” he whispered, “Did you go with him? I was sure he’d find a flat around here, to be close to us. What did he say?”

“What do you think he said? Last time you did not want to talk about him, but maybe you should have.”

He walked away and I followed him to the bedroom, which was in total chaos. He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.

“I don’t want to.”

“Why not, if you got nothing to hide?” I asked, and I was getting angry again.

“I dislike who I was when he was around.”

“Okay, so tell me about you and Julie.”

He opened his eyes, “There’s no ‘me and Julie’. I’ve not even met her.”

“You’re lying. I saw you dancing with her.”

He cackled.

“You must have been smashed or high.”

“It was the same song I danced with Chiara. Was that your way of settling scores?”

“I did not dance with Julie.”

“Was there another Elio Perlman dressed in frills and leather last night? I didn’t know you had a fucking twin!” I shouted.

He sprang up and off the bed and fisted his hands into my shirt.

“You are the one who did not come back last night. I was here waiting and I thought I was losing my fucking mind! When I got to the party, I couldn’t find you and no one knew where you were.”

“You didn’t seem to miss me.”

“Okay, maybe I had a drink or three, but I was stressed and worried and also a little excited,” he hissed, “Like the idiot that I am, I thought you’d be looking out for me. But no, off you went, god knows where. Where did you sleep?”

I had no intention of lying.

“I met Tim,” I replied, “The guy from the gym.”

He let out a shrill, ugly laugh.

“Like I would forget his fucking stupid name: Tim from the gym, who’s been trying to get into your pants from the start. Was he good; was he better than me?”

“Nothing happened.”

Quick as lightning, he went for my pants and undid them.

“What are you doing?” I slapped his hands away, but he seemed to have grown stronger. He pulled down my trousers together with my boxers and pressed his face to my groin. I was enraged and getting hard at the same time. He inhaled furiously and it took me a while to realise he was having trouble breathing.

“Elio, calm down, come on,” I said, and pulled him so that I could hold him in my arms.

“No, no, please, no” he choked off, and then he was crying, soaking the front of my t-shirt.


	36. Cards on The Table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarifications, at last.
> 
> Oliver's POV then Elio's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience; you are the best, I swear!

Elio was shaking in my arms and I was beginning to worry.

“Let’s sit on the bed,” I suggested; he didn’t respond so I carried him there and deposited him on the mattress. The best thing was for him to bend down with his head between his knees, so I helped him get in that position. He was docile and that scared me more than his anger; he’d been so energetic, hyper and now he was like a puppet without strings.

“Take deep, long breaths,” I urged, rubbing his back. As he complied, I pulled up my boxers and buttoned my pants, and once that too was done I kneeled before him and cupped his face in my hands.

He was chalk-white and his eyes were red-rimmed, but at least he was no longer on the verge of a panic attack.

“I only slept at Tim’s place, I swear. I would never cheat on you, not now, not ever. You must know that,” I enunciated every word with clarity and my gaze was unwavering. He nodded, but when he finally stopped shedding tears, I noticed something odd.

“Did you take anything tonight?”

“Rum and coke and wine,” he whispered.

“No drugs?”

He shook his head. I stared into his eyes and caressed his curls and his neck.

“I won’t be mad, as long as you tell me the truth.”

“But I am, I am!” he cried out, with some of his earlier bravado, “I was with Lev and the others. We had fish and chips in Clerkenwell then we went to the party and had some--- a lot to drink, but we didn’t even smoke pot. I wanted to have fun but I would never--- not without you.”

He wrapped his arms around me and put his head on my shoulder.

“I came home and you weren’t here. I didn’t know what to do,” he murmured, and shuddered as though a ghost had gone through him.

We needed to talk, but he was in no state for that kind of conversation. I was rested, but he needed to be in bed with a hot drink. I told him as much and he didn’t contradict me. I undid and removed his shirt and leather pants and once he was down to his briefs, I helped him into one of my pyjama jackets and then underneath the covers.

“Don’t leave me,” he pleaded, and grabbed my wrist as I was about to go to the kitchen.

“Close your eyes and relax,” I said, kissing the tip of his nose, “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

When I did return with a mug of camomile tea, he was fast asleep. He had removed his top; he was embracing my pillow and breathing through his parted lips. Someone had done something to him and I was not going to rest until I found out the truth.

I undressed, lay down by his side and spooned him, my chest to his back. I felt him lean into me and as our breathing synchronised, I closed my eyes and slept.

 

“Oliver,” Elio’s voice was hoarse.

“You okay?”

I was immediately awake.

“Yeah,” he whispered, “Are you very disappointed?”

“Why should I be?”

“I was like a dog sniffing his bitch,” he grimaced.

“That didn’t bother me as much as it should have,” I replied, “As you must have realised.” My cock had swelled and I was sure he’d noticed.

“You didn’t hate it?”

“I’m not sure I wouldn’t do the same to you in similar circumstances.”

“We are a pair,” he smirked.

“Sick and twisted,” I quoted, “But that much we already knew.”

“I wish I could blame the alcohol, but that’s no excuse.”

I kissed his cheeks, his closed eyes, his nose, his chin.

“There is very little I would not forgive you for, Elio,” I said, “And lying is top of the list. I saw you dancing to that song,” I couldn’t say its name, that’s how much it hurt, “with Julie. I admit that it was a shock, but I was tipsy and Malaspina was hounding me, so I may have over-reacted.”

He didn’t let me finish.

“I did not dance with her.”

“I saw you with my own eyes, Elio.”

He seemed genuinely puzzled.

“But I don’t remember it.”

That was the crux of the matter.

“Do you remember the song being played?”

He scrunched his nose.

“Sort of,” he replied, dreamily, “But I thought I’d imagined it. Like when you have perfect recall of a moment and it’s almost like it’s unfolding right in front of your eyes.”

I felt a surge of anger so powerful it choked me momentarily.

“A fucking Mickey Finn,” I said, when I recovered my voice, “I’m going to find him and then I’m going to hurt him.”

“What, who, what?” he stuttered.

“Your dear friend Riccardo drugged you, that’s what! And that girl Julie, I bet she’s his girlfriend. He practically told me, the bastard. His ex – if she really existed – was a tall blonde, he said: what a coincidence, I don’t think.”

Elio recoiled, looking horrified.

“What if I, maybe I,” he couldn’t go on.

I gathered him in my arms and for a while we said nothing. I was thinking about the possibility of Elio having slept with that girl while under the influence, but I discounted it.

“I don’t think she’d have gone that far,” I reassured him, “Nor him, and not because he cares, but that would have been a criminal act and he must have guessed that we’d have pressed charges, no matter what. As it happened, it’s still not okay, but they would not prosecute someone for dancing with you. It would be a waste of police time.”

“But why did he do it then?”

“He wanted to cause a rift between us. Which is why you have to tell me,” I said, pressing him tightly against me, “Why would he go to all that trouble to break us up?”

He shivered and mouthed my collarbone.

“You will despise me if I tell you,” he whispered. “You won’t want me any more.”

I couldn’t repress a chuckle.

“Have you met me? I get hard just by looking at you.”

“But we have that other _thing_ going on,” he said, tentatively, “And you _showed me_ that you need that and I want to be the one to give it to you. I couldn’t stand it if-“

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to-“

He wiggled out of my embrace and took my face in both his hands.

“It’s what I want too, since before we got together. You were the first to make me feel that way; to make me dream of that.”

“Just tell me,” I sighed, “It can’t be any worse than having that maniac dosing you with god knows what substances.”

“Okay, but can you hold me without looking at me?”

I agreed, so we lay back down in the same configuration in which we’d fallen asleep.

 

“A boy-tart, that’s what he used to call me,” I started, doing by best to tamp down the bile that stung the back of my throat. “Because he said that I wanted to seduce everybody. I just wanted people to like me, you know?”

Oliver nodded, probably remembering the times I’d shown off in front of our dinner guests, pontificating about everything under the sun, from Celan to La Chartreuse de Parme.

“And he was always so smart and attractive, and all the girls – and some of the boys - used to fall for him.”

“You were jealous.”

“I wanted to find out what made him so popular. There was this girl-”

“Cristiana, the tall blonde from Trento,” he said.

“Yeah, he told you that,” I cringed, squeezing my eyes shut. He couldn’t see me, but I felt his gaze on the back of my head, piercing and unwavering.

“He said you dated her after he left her.”

“That’s not what,” I stopped, trying to find the right words, but there were none, so I just went ahead and blurted it all out, “I liked her and I asked her out, but she was infatuated with him. He found out and convinced me spy on them while they were having sex. She didn’t know.”

“How many times did you do it?”

“More than once,” I admitted, “It was arousing and risky and I was very young.”

“You don’t have to apologise to me.”

“It was wrong and a violation of her privacy; I wish I hadn’t done it.”

“Were you in love with him?”

Oliver’s heart was beating fast against my shoulder-blade.

“I thought I was, but it was only a warped kind of hero-worship.”

“Yeah, and I bet he got hooked on that too.”

“I doubt it. He was always experimenting with people and feelings. He didn’t want to lose one of his guinea pigs.”

He buried his face in my nape and dotted it with soft kisses.

“He told me about your secret place,” he murmured, “He said you kissed him there and that I was just a second-hand emotion for you.”

I rolled around and brought my lips to Oliver’s: it was a chaste exchange, but my grip was firm and possessive; I felt him melt into me, and my body started to relax, at last.

“I never took anyone there but you,” I said, “But he must have known what we did, he must have found out and he wanted to ruin our place for us.”

Oliver closed his eyes and chewed on his lips.

“He repeated your words, about the things that really matter.”

I blushed.

“That may have been something I used to try out when I was a kid,” I muttered.

He was smiling and gazing at me with fondness.

“You wrote a script of what you would say to your first lover and you rehearsed it in advance?”

“Are you laughing at me?” I scowled.

“A little,” he replied, kissing my forehead, “It’s cute; strange but cute.”

“And not my first lover,” I corrected him, “My love. There has been only one.”

He kissed me, and this time he slipped his tongue in my mouth; it was like an electric shock which went straight to my balls.

“Is there anything more you have kept from me?” he was panting, “Because I would very much like to stop talking otherwise.”

I wanted the same thing, but I also knew we wouldn’t survive as a couple if I kept editing the past.

“His was the first erect cock I saw aside from mine. When I was thirteen, my parents and I were at his place for dinner. After dessert, we sneaked out. It was summer and there was this huge moon which was almost as bright as the sun. There was a poppy field behind their villa and Riccardo used to go there to smoke. He was fifteen and he’d already had sex, or so he said.”

“Did he touch you?”

“No,” I decided to be honest, “He knew I wanted to, so he didn’t let me. He made me look as he jerked off. He didn’t even let me touch myself. He gave me orders and I obeyed.”

He closed his eyes.

“Do I disgust you?” I asked.

“You were only a kid.”

“I liked being told what to do, but with you,” I traced the curve of his jaw, “Everything changed. You changed it; you changed me.”

“God, I wish I’d been there,” he was breathing hard and licking his lips.

“Why?” I asked, feigning innocence.

“I’d have taken care of you, in every way.”

“Every way?”                           

“All the ways you'd allowed me to,” he replied, his hands already on my ass.

“Would you have caressed my throat while I jacked off?”

“I’d have stroked your entire body, worshipped you on my knees.”

My dick had started to leak at the tip.

“You wouldn’t have looked at me twice,” I said, nuzzling the hollow of his throat, “I was only thirteen.”

“Just because you were illegal,” he replied, caressing my hair, “But I would have been tempted, like I was when we first met.”

Our erections were rubbing together and if he’d kept at it, I wouldn’t have lasted much longer. I rolled away from him and he moaned in dismay.

“I’m not sure I’ve forgiven you,” I said, drawing the covers up to my chin and closing my eyes. “You believed Riccardo, left me alone and slept at some guy’s apartment.”

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, and I felt the soft touch of his fingers on my chest and the warmth of his body as it gravitated towards mine.

“You can do whatever you want to me,” he added, placing a cautious kiss on my lips.

Before he could figure out what was happening, I pulled the covers down and had him at my mercy.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mickey Finn: a Mickey Finn—or simply a Mickey—is a drink laced with a psychoactive drug or incapacitating agent (especially chloral hydrate) given to someone without their knowledge, with intent to incapacitate them.


	37. Out of The Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and into the light.
> 
> Smut and fluff and they are so in love they make me weep with joy.
> 
> Elio's POV

 

I’d come home - because that’s what it was to me already– and Oliver had not been there. It had been very late and since I had not seen him all night, I’d imagined he’d left, like he’d said he would.

I was more than a little intoxicated, but I could walk and think straight; in fact, I felt more lucid than after smoking pot. And yet, when later on I’d tried to recapture the chronology of the party, I could only come up with random snapshots: Lev and Edmund throwing French fries at each other, Dirk and Paz making out while Depeche Mode’s Somebody played in the background, Daniel Nolan sitting next to Oliver’s blazer, Lev and I belting out Duran Duran’s Wild Boys while jumping up and down like deranged chimpanzees. And after that: wading through the crowd trying to find Oliver, finding myself in the basement, in that middle earth between the cinema and the underground parking lot, cold air whistling in my ears and the shadow of an ominous presence creeping up my spine. It’s nothing, I’d told myself, just your overactive imagination; you have watched too many films in which people get shot and their body shoved inside the boot of a car. I’d turned away and almost run upstairs, because I’d been too scared to wait for the lift.

I’d been afraid for no reason, just because Oliver had disappeared without me.

Back at the party, the music had become louder, the rhythm more insistent: I’d tried to dance but my heart wasn’t in it. It was like being trapped in a nightmare, and after the eerie silence of the car park, I felt that my happiness had been tainted, the sun blotted out of it.

 

 

And now Oliver was looking at me, waiting for his punishment, asking for it.

I imagined him as he watched me with that girl, our two bodies pressed together: how he must have hated it. I could see the pained expression in his eyes, the imperceptible tremor in his lips, the crease between his brows, the clench of his jaw.

“What is it? Are you okay?” he asked, alarmed, “Shall I take you to the hospital?”

I shook my head, traced the seam of his lips with the pad of my thumb.

Obediently, he opened his mouth and let me in. At first, I gave him delicate kitten licks using only the tip, but when he started moaning, I shoved my tongue down his throat; it was wet, sloppy, insistent: he reciprocated with the same hunger, uttering strangled growls which drove me insane. We stopped to draw breath but soon I was in again; my tongue fat, relentless and greedy, while he surrendered and invited my intrusion. We kept at it until the heaviness between my legs became impossible to ignore. I was on top of him and he too was tense with want.

Numberless scenarios unfolded before me, but I picked my favourite without hesitation.

“You said you’d have taken care of me, back then.”

“Yes.”

It was as though I’d conjured up his voice from a dream. I looked at him again, and I saw the couple on the dance-floor clearly, but this time it was Oliver with Julie.

They were smiling and tall and glowing with a radiance I could never hope to equal.

And that same song was playing, those lyrics which would always haunt me:

_Dancing behind masks_  
_Just sort of pantomime_  
 _But images reveal_  
 _Whatever lonely hearts can hide_

 

“Oliver, what are you hiding from me?” I wondered, or was he asking me that same question?

 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” he insisted, tucking stray curls behind my ear.

“Me okay,” I grinned, and something in him which had been coiled tight unwound a little.

“If you only want to, you know, do this,” he touched his index to my lips, “It’s all fine; more than fine.”

“What about that?” I palmed his crotch, crudely, to show him that I was still in control. He thrust into me, rock-hard and sticky.

“Tell me,” he whispered.

“Gonna sit on your dick,” I said, “Jerk off while you stroke my throat.”

“Oh god,” he gasped.

He rolled on a condom while I opened myself up with my own fingers dipped in KY. We locked eyes the entire time; his tongue came out at every grunt I uttered.

“Wanna lick it?” I asked, but my expression told him there was no chance of that.

“Yes.”

His gaze did not waver.

“It’ll probably taste of leather and sweat,” I hissed when the third finger slipped in.

Oliver licked his lips, twice, and I could have sworn he wasn’t aware of doing it.

“Yes.”             

“I’m not clean enough for you,” I suggested, and on the spur of the moment, I changed my mind: I turned around and went down on my elbows, my ass on display, there for the taking.

“Just once,” I said, firmly.

He spread my buttocks and shoved his tongue in, roughly, afraid that I would pull away from him. He ate me like a starving man and I had to strangle my dick to keep it tame.

“Stop,” I ordered, in a tone that wasn’t as commanding as I wished.

He did as told, but not without protesting.

“Put it in me,” I told him, while in the same position.

When he guided his cockhead in, Oliver was shaking. Because I was ready and he was slick with lube, it almost glided inside. Until then I’d been on my knees and forearms, but I took advantage of his rapture to push back and up until his dick was inside me to the hilt. He let out a stream of whispered profanities.

“You’re not allowed to come,” I said, circling my hips. He was enormous and the position made him feel even bigger.

“I can’t last,” he groaned, wrapping both hands around my neck and stroking, up and down. I grabbed my dick and started fisting it. I was in the same condition.

“You’d better,” I said, and bounced on his cock, while he squeezed my throat and I desperately tried not to shoot my load too quickly.

When I couldn’t stave it off any longer, I urged him to pinch my nipples; he used his fingernails on them, scratched them hard, took my breath away. I came and came, and screamed his name, cursed him for being everything to me.

I’d spilled into my hand and when I turned to face him, he was hollow-cheeked and wild-eyed with hunger. He took the condom off and his cock slapped his stomach. I was curious to find out what he’d do first.

He was awaiting my permission.

“Yes,” I said, and let him lap my fingers clean while I sucked his dick. The instant my lips swallowed him in, he made a pained sound which seem to issue from his guts. He could barely wait for me to get a throatful of him and soon he was feeding me his release: it was bitter, abundant and never enough.

 

“Am I forgiven?” he asked, in between soft, lazy kisses.

“There was nothing to forgive.”

I ran my hands over his torso, relishing the feel of his sweat-soaked chest hair.

“You and I,” I replied, “We are the same. There must have been a Riccardo in your past.”

Oliver closed his eyes. The rain lashed against the window panes. I had no idea what time it was; it was a day made of night, perfect for love-making and truth-telling.

“His name was Flynn,” he murmured.

I had not banked on him confirming my surmises. Of course there would be somebody and it had to be a boy.

“Did you love him?”

_Please, say you didn’t._

“I wanted to be like him and I wanted him to like me. He was my friend and never mistreated me. He simply got tired of me and moved on. At that age – I was thirteen when his parents left town – it’s easy to confuse one thing for another.”

“What did he do?”

Oliver rubbed at a pulse point on my neck, fixing his eyes on it.

“He taught me to play poker and to smoke pot,” he replied, “He was always hanging out with older folks and I followed him everywhere.”

He laughed, sheepishly.

“It must have been flattering until it no longer was. He was three years older than me and surely didn’t relish having this kid doting on him.”

Oliver as a child, a sweet, starry-eyed boy; before he’d learned to hide behind his all-American, wholesome façade; before he’d been hurt by unkindness and disregard.

“Was he into boys?”

“I don’t think so, but I can’t say for sure. I only figured out my own feelings much later.”

I felt the love for him in my blood, in the very essence of my being. He’d worked his way under my skin, and if I caught sight of myself in a mirror, out of the corner of my eye, I might see him too: that serious, passionate, secretive boy.

“I will never cease wanting this,” I said, laying my hand on his hip, “And I will always be jealous. It doesn’t mean that I don’t trust you.”

“I know,” he smiled, “It’s the same for me. And those leather pants didn’t help.”

“Didn’t they?”

He teased the crease of my ass.

“And that shirt,” he continued, “I so wanted to go down on you in that get-up.”

“That was the plan.”

“Interesting,” he hummed, all the while kneading my glutes.

“I was going to find you and dance in front of you. I’d have unbuttoned my shirt to show my nipples and I’d have pretended not to notice you.”

I slung one leg over his, and caressed his calf with my toes.

“You’d have got us into trouble,” he said, “I was a bit drunk. I’d have dragged you away and fucked you in the toilets, like Will suggested.”

I shrieked, “Whaaat?”

Oliver burst into a fit of giggles and told me about his friend’s phone call.

“I was thinking about the music library,” I argued, “I have a spare key, because there’s a piano and I go there to practise. There is also a big, sturdy table and I was going to bend you over it and fuck your brains out. You could have screamed all you liked: the walls are sound-proof.”

He fingered my thigh and sighed.

“I _will_ hurt him,” he said.

“I don’t want you to get into trouble because of him. You are leaving on Friday and I’d rather not spend the next few days talking about Riccardo bloody Malaspina.”

“That’s what he’s counting on, that we’ll just be too scared to act against him. Anything could have happened,” Oliver was growing more furious as he went on, “For all he knew, you could have been allergic to the drug and choked to death. You wouldn’t have been the first or the last.”

“What will you do?”

He enveloped me in a tight hug.

“I’ll speak to Julie first. She must realise she’s in deep trouble and she’s right.”

“I’ll talk to Jack.”

Oliver’s anger reached fever-pitch.

“You leave your cousin to me,” he stated, “I intend to get some sense out of him, if I have to shake him like a maraca.”

“Good luck with that.”

 

After showering together, we ate scrambled eggs and a green salad.

It was four in the afternoon; a wet, livid afternoon.

“I bought the piano,” he said, as he poured more coffee into my mug. “I know you should have seen it first, but I don’t want Nolan to find out about us. He’s a very nice man, but he likes to talk.”

“I have seen it,” I said, “Melancholy Galliard, I think.”

I loved it when Oliver was taken by surprise and his eyes became two large pools of befuddlement.

“What? No, that’s not, we spoke of it, it’s a Bechstein.”

I chuckled and he kept repeating “what, what?” in the most adorable way. I wanted to kiss him silly.

“That’s a piece by John Dowland,” I explained, “I transcribed it from the lute tablature and arranged it for piano. He asked me to play at his friend’s party, once.”

He tickled me until I begged him to stop.

“Nolan must have put two and two together,” he said, when we’d calmed down.

I took his hand and brought it to my lips.

“Don’t hold it against me,” I said, staring into his eyes, “But I don’t mind if he knows. I’m very proud to be yours and that you’re mine.”


	38. Two Bitter Years Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.  
> My best friend said I should have stopped after chapter 29 and maybe she was right. But I loved these boys so I couldn't let them go. Maybe consider the rest of the story as a long epilogue.
> 
> Oliver's POV then Elio's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to you all.  
> This fandom has been amazing, absolutely 100% fantastic.  
> But there comes a time when you have to say stop and that is it.
> 
> "O tempora o mores" is an observation by Cicero. It translates as Oh what times! Oh what customs!

  
I had planned to find Julie and get the truth out of her, but it was already mid-afternoon and I didn’t want to leave Elio alone. The drug didn’t seem to have any lasting effects, but since he’d refused to see a doctor, I preferred to be vigilant.

The sky had cleared and the wind had abated, but neither of us felt like going out.

We were not expecting guests, but I wasn’t too surprised when the door bell rang.

“Must be your cousin,” I said, “Go put something on, just in case.”

Elio was wearing my denim shirt and a pair of skimpy white underpants. We’d been reading on the couch and he’d been lying down, his head resting on my lap, and one leg slung over the back of the sofa.

I wouldn’t have said anything, but I knew that he relished my jealousy just as much as I did his.

“Yes, Sir,” he replied, kissing me on the cheek.

I padded to the door and before flinging it open, I drew a deep breath. I needed to keep calm and repress the temptation to shout at Jack, or worse.

What I had definitely not anticipated was his companion: a giant hulk of a man with acne scarred cheeks, dark eyes and shoulder-length dreadlocks.

The man didn’t even look at me; he was staring at a point behind me, where surely Elio must have been standing.

I glared at Jack, who responded with his usual placid, unemotional gaze.

“I brought Gaz,” he said, as I let them in. “I told you about him.”

“The drug dealer,” I suggested.

“Facilitator,” the man interjected. His accent was faintly Latin-American.

His eyes were still on Elio, who had moved closer to my side. I noticed that he’d put on a pair of baggy sweatpants which he usually wore low on his hips but not this time. He’d tried to comb his hair but with little success. It was clear to anyone with a modicum of observational skills that he’d had sex recently. Gaz’s ‘profession’ required that he noticed people and their quirks, so he wouldn’t have overlooked that salient detail. I smiled at him, baring my teeth: I think we understood each other without having to say a single word.

“Tell them about Malaspina,” Jack urged him.

“I’m no kiss and tell guy,” Gaz replied, smirking. “I’m a gentleman.”

For a moment, I thought he was being literal.

“You sold him the stuff,” Elio’s cousin continued.

“If you say so”

“I do say so. It can only have been you. He was with me when you sold me those other _things_.”

“Why was he with you?” I asked.

“Why not?”

“Where is he now?”

“How would I know?”

Elio chuckled.

“Boys, boys, I’m not here to play umpire,” Gaz intervened, “Unless you want to be left alone. Curly hair and I can entertain each other.”

“Why are you here?” I hissed. I hadn’t punched anybody in a very long time, but I was not averse to getting my hands dirty.

“Gaz’s no idiot. That’s why I picked him. He only sells pure stuff and at a fair price.”

“And nothing but the truth,” the man chimed in.

“And what Malaspina bought off you was pure chloral hydrate.”

“Ain’t there anything you don’t know, Jack my lad?”

“Did he buy anything else?” Elio asked.

Gaz stepped closer to him and gave him the once-over.

“Did he dose you with the Mickey? Did he fuck you, the lucky bastard?”

I grabbed him by the collar of his leather jacket.

“Oliver,” Jack said, calmly, and then to his dealer: “Quit provoking him. You had your fun.”

“Americans and their imperialistic ways,” Gaz was grinning, but I knew that he’d have spat in my face or stuck a knife in me, given half a chance. I let him go and he made a show of dusting off his shoulders and torso.

“He didn’t flip you an E,” he told Elio, “Or you wouldn’t be asking.”

“How much?” Jack enquired.

“Half a grand, but I’m not giving you a shopping list.”

Gaz licked his lips as he eyes followed the length of Elio’s throat.

“You better be careful,” he whispered, “Mad world out there. Beautiful people are like apples: some are riddled with worms.”

He gave Elio his hand to shake. It was surprisingly well-tended, with clean, manicured nails.

“You play the piano.”

“Yeah,” Elio replied, looking at his cousin, who had already lost interest in the proceedings.

“I have front row tickets for Mishima,” Gaz said, “If you like Glass.”

Elio gasped and something like amusement traversed his cousin’s face.

“We can get tickets through the Guildhall,” Elio replied, “But thanks anyway.”

“In case you change your mind, this is my card.”

The man whipped out a pristine square of quality paper with his details embossed on it. Elio took it and held it in his hand, without glancing at it.

Gaz left with a swagger and without acknowledging me or Jack.

 

“Why did you bring that creep here? You could have phoned or we could have met elsewhere.”

Jack looked at me as though I was speaking Martian.

“He loves Philip Glass,” Elio said, like that excused anything.

Sometimes I wondered whether the Perlman family had their own set of rules they didn’t share with the rest of us.

“He also sells drugs and was the one who supplied that other fucking creep with stuff which could have killed you.”

“Chloral hydrate is a sedative and a hypnotic,” Jack argued, “You’d have to use a large amount to do serious damage.”

“That’s not the bloody point, is it? And tell me, why did you go see your dealer with Malaspina in tow?”

He rolled his eyes. Elio placed a conciliatory hand on my back.

“He was keeping an eye on him,” he said, softly.

“Well, that wasn’t very successful was it? You got drugged and Riccardo nearly got what he wanted.”

“Nearly is not good enough for him,” Jack said, turning his back on me and walking up to the bookshelf. “But what could he do? If he’d slipped you an E or something harder, I’d have found out. And he realised as much. This is the best he could do. Give him enough rope.”

“That’s what I thought last night,” I exclaimed.

He pulled out a book and when I got closer I saw that it was one of Elio’s: Sagan’s _Aimez-Vous Brahms?_ He read the blurb at the back then handed it to me.

“You should read this,” he said.

“I have seen the film.”

“Of course you have,” he dead-panned.

It was the story of an older woman who falls for a much younger man but chickens out at the end and returns to her age-appropriate partner.

Somehow he must have found out that I was going to the States on Friday.

“I’m not going to let him get away with this,” I said, “Just because I have other commitments. Your cousin is my top priority, in case this wasn’t clear to you.”

Elio came up to me and hugged me from behind.

“Sweet,” Jack said, seriously. He left as silently as Gaz, minus the swagger.

 

“Jack likes you,” Elio said. We were on the couch again, but neither of us could concentrate on the books we’d been reading before.

“He has a strange way of showing it.”

“That’s his way: meandering and indirect. Trust me, he really likes you; so much so that if I weren’t sure of you, I might even be on my guard.”

I caressed his neck.

“Are you sensing a trap, like the lady in the _Heptaméron_?”

“Idiot,” he giggled, “He’d never do that, try and steal my man.”

That sounded very hot.

“Not that he could, even if I wasn’t yours. I don’t think we’d be compatible, if you know what I mean. He’s a cold fish and I’m, well, not.”

“What kind of fish are you?” he teased.

“The kind with tentacles,” I said, touching him all over. He let me do as I pleased and we made out for a long while, me on top of him, his hands on my back and ass. When we resurfaced, I tackled the issue head-on.

“I am not going back to Alice: you know that, right?”

“Yeah, but I still wish I was coming with you.”

“I’m gonna be there for less than three days. I’ll be back before you can miss me.”

He bit my chin.

“I miss you when you are in the shower and I am in bed alone.”

“That never happens.”

“What did I just say?”

“Okay then, you’ll miss me terribly and be very grateful that I’m back and want to do things to show me the depths of your gratitude.”

“What things?”

“You know what things,” I quoted back at him. He slapped my ass. “Tell me,” he said. He was no longer joking.

“Do it again, please” I whispered.

He smacked me harder; again and again.

We got deep into it, enjoying our physical and emotional connection, the synergy of our bodies and the thrill of being free from any constraint.

“That was what I meant,” I told him later, “Don’t ever forget.”

“I remember everything about us, Oliver,” he replied, resting his head on my chest. We slept and didn’t wake up again until dinner time.

 

I knew this chapter of my life could never be over until I faced Riccardo again and showed him that I had become a different person. He’d taken me by surprise the first time and gained the advantage, but I was prepared now and wouldn’t let him prevail.

Will called to invite us to dinner, but I insisted Oliver went by himself.

He refused initially, but I told him that I had work to do and that he’d only distract me if he stayed. Besides, it would only be for a couple of hours and I had Will’s number so I could call him if anything happened. He was unsure, but I found a way to convince him.

It was almost as if the drug had flicked a switch within me and swept away my insecurities and my childish tantrums: looking back only a few weeks, I could hardly believe that I’d been filled with such contempt and spite against Oliver. I had been behaving like a kid, but those days were gone for good.

Riccardo had awakened the last of my fears and destroyed them at the same time: they were only ghosts; none of them was real. He wasn’t real either; there was no heart or soul to him; he was like a mythological figure or a fairytale villain.

After Oliver left, I ate a bacon sandwich, drank a glass of wine, smoked a cigarette and assessed that I was ready to meet my old friend.

I walked to Pear Tree Street, wondering whether I was wasting my time: why would he be hanging around here when there were a thousand different places he could be and no sufficient reason to still be pursuing me?

The lift was out of order again and as I climbed up the stairs, I was assaulted by the stench of rot and piss. It had seemed almost romantic, once upon a time, but now all that was left was the squalor and the sadness of it all.

I still had a spare key, but I rang the bell all the same. It didn’t seem to work, so I knocked a couple of times.

Silence.

In the distance, a door banged and a woman cursed; a baby cried and the wheels of a pram emitted a squeaky sound.

I retraced my steps and was about to leave the estate when I noticed Spike and a group of his junkie friends coming my way. I went in the other direction, which brought me to the launderette. It was nearly deserted, as usual for a Monday evening. On the window were the customary posters advertising disco nights, cheap fast food joints, and scraps of papers pasted on by people seeking room-mates, offering English lessons, guitar tuition, asking for secretarial jobs.

They made for interesting reading, and I didn’t have anything better to do.

“This could be you,” a voice recited, “Professional pianist offers affordable piano lessons to students from absolute beginners to grade 5. Friendly, flexible and fun.”

“Hardly professional,” I said, turning to look at him “How did you know where to find me?”

Riccardo smiled. “Didn’t you see me with your old mate Spike?”

“Certainly not my mate,” I snorted. “Were you selling him some of your gear?”

“I don’t need the money.”

“What do you need?”

He was shorter and thinner than I remembered.

“Why don’t we go somewhere quiet and I tell you?”

“I’m not following you home.”

“Such an ambiguous term,” he said, staring me in the eye. Once I had been so spellbound by his absinthe-hued gaze, but I was impermeable to it now. He must have sensed it, because he shrugged his shoulders and looked away.

“There’s one of these secret speak-easy bars in Old Street,” he said, “I could offer you a Mint Julep.”

“As long as it’s not spiked,” I argued.

“I’m as clean as a whistle,” he replied, “Search my pockets, if you don’t believe me.”

“You wish,” I said.

The bar he had in mind was literally just across the street. Its front door was old and peeling and there was no sign indicating it was not a house but commercial premises. He rang the bell and a blonde hostess, dressed in 1920s attire, came to let us in. She had his name on a list she perused, grazing the white paper with her purple-painted nails. We went down a flight of stairs and were guided to a dark alcove with one table, two velvet benches and a row of vanilla-scented tea lights for illumination. In the adjacent room, a band was playing jazz tunes and a woman was singing _Miss Otis Regrets_ :

_“When she woke up and found_  
_That her dream of love was gone, madam_  
_She ran to the man who had lead her so far astray_  
_And from under her velvet gown_  
_She drew a gun and shot her lover down, madam”_

 

Riccardo ordered the drinks – Mint Julep as he’d promised – and we were finally alone. The old-fashioned atmosphere lent a sophisticated, civilised varnish to what was essentially a long goodbye.

“Don’t you miss the times when one could shoot one’s lover down?” he said, offering me one of his Gauloises.

“No, and anyway we never lived in that era so how could we miss it?”

“Wisdom was always one of your most winning traits,” he said, casting me an amused glance.

“Why did you do that to Oliver and me?”

“Do what?”

“Come on, I’m not one of your dumb blondes.”

“ _You_ are dating one,” he countered. “He was so easy I nearly slapped him to shake him out of it.”

“Oliver’s a professor and a writer. He may be many things, but dumb isn’t one of them.”

“Culture,” he said, dismissively.

“Like you weren’t crazy about Foucault a few years ago,” I said.

“ _O tempora, o mores_ ,” he said.

“Have you replaced knowledge with drugs? Has been done already, why be unoriginal?”

“Not drugs, people,” he replied.

The hostess brought us our cocktails and a bowl full of salted peanuts.

The band had moved on to Noel Coward’s _Mad About the Boy_.

_“On the silver screen_  
_He melts my foolish heart in every single scene_  
_Although I'm quite aware that here and there are traces of the cad_  
_About the boy”_

 

“I was hoping you’d be intrigued by the possibilities,” he said, sucking up his drink from the candy-striped straw.

“What possibilities? You got me high so that I’d make out with that Julie person in front of my boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend,” he shuddered.

“Lover then,” I countered, “The man I love, that I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

He grimaced, lighted another cigarette.

“Till death do us part,” he quoted, “Death by boredom.”

“These days we may not last that long.”

He had nothing flippant to say to that. His own idol, the philosopher Michel Foucault, had died two years ago of AIDS.

“Whatever happened to you? You used to be so much fun.”

“I was fun because I did what you wanted me to do. You said jump and I asked how high.”

He laughed.

“You wanted to; you couldn’t wait for someone to show off to.”

“I was too young to know any better.”

I felt the warmth of his body next to mine; it repulsed me, but I forced myself to stay still.

“Is there anything better?”

His expression was unreadable, but I wondered if perhaps he was asking an honest question. How do you explain love to an automaton?

“Taking care of someone else’s needs, being there for them no matter what, trusting one another,” I started.

“You sound like a post-war housewife,” he said, stubbing his cigarette into the shell-shaped ashtray. His fingers curled around my wrist and his thumb stroked my pulse point.

“I’m thinking of going to India,” he said, “Why don’t you come with me? We could go to Greece first, Mykonos perhaps, and then travel Eastwards.”

“You haven’t been listening,” I replied, removing my hand from his grasp, “My life’s with Oliver.”

He glared at me and then his mouth curved into a lewd smile.

“Oh I see, that’s how it is, isn’t it? You have become me and Oliver is you. I should have known, but I was distracted by his... size.”

“We are not acting out one of your sick fantasies.”

“One of yours then,” he countered.

“Whatever it is that we are doing, it does not nor will ever concern you. You had your time. That time was yesterday.”

I finished my drink and my cigarette and put my coat back on. He didn’t stop me.

“Oliver wants to come after you and Julie,” I said, as I stood up to go.

“I’ll be gone by tomorrow night,” he replied, smiling broadly, with no trace of emotion.

I was escorted out by a different hostess, a brunette with tight curls.

The band had gone back to Cole Porter and the lyrics made me giggle.

_If I invite a boy some night_  
_To dine on my fine food and haddie_  
_I just adore, his asking for more_  
_But my heart belongs to Daddy_

 

When I got home, the flat was empty, but it smelled of Oliver’s cologne and of his shampoo. Like he’d promised, he’d purchased the Roger & Gallet again, just because he knew it would make me happy.

There was nothing left for me to do, except for one thing.

I lifted the receiver, dialled the number, sat down and waited.

“ _Maman, c’est moi, Elio_. I missed you too, so much. Is dad there?”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed the story, kudos and comments would be very much appreciated. I always reply, even if not immediately.


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